


Sparks Send Fire Down The Wire

by TjLockticon



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Found Family, Gen, Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phoenix Technoblade, Phoenix Wilbur Soot, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Repressed Memories, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Some soft Karlnapity in the background, Villain Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Winged Hybrids, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Winged Wilbur Soot, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:41:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28972239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TjLockticon/pseuds/TjLockticon
Summary: "Phil," Tommy croaks, barely breathing, barely comprehending the words as they leave his lips, "where... where are your wings?"Phil's mouth opens, closes, opens again, a shaky breath creaking between his lips. All the color drains from his face as confusion gives way to dawning horror, and the response he finally gives is one that shakes Tommy to his core."...Tommy," Phil whispers, and the world comes apart at the seams all over again, "where areyours??"-In which something has been stolen from Philza's sons, Dream's rampant abuse of both admin powers and vulnerable minors doesn't go unnoticed, and a broken family learns to heal (and maybe manages to heal an entire server along the way).
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 166
Kudos: 1045





	1. unraveling the most essential thread

**Author's Note:**

> New fic! There are not enough SBI fics where the boys are avian hybrids and I was craving some serious hurt/comfort, so here we are :D
> 
> Basic worldbuilding info: servers are essentially parallel worlds, overseen by one or more admins. 'Players' are living people who also happen to have 'code' alongside their DNA that can be influenced by admins. Players only have one life, except in extremely specific and rare circumstances. Hybrids exist, and some are rarer - and more feared - than others.
> 
> (Title from "Earth" by Sleeping At Last)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from "Taste" by Sleeping At Last)

**_[Ph1LzA has joined the server]_ **

Dream sees the message flash on his communicator before anyone else does - too late to stop it, though - and while his composure is usually unshakeable, he can't help but do a double-take when he sees _that_ name.

Admin code flares up reflexively on the back of his eyelids as his pulse quickens. In the split seconds while this newest intruder spawns in his server - not even at the proper spawning point, he's breaking in and Dream has _no idea_ where he'll appear - time stands frozen, and he pries into Philza's code, viciously demanding explanation. Ever since the infamous Technoblade brute-forced his way into Dream's server, he's locked down the exit and entry protocols tighter than ever before. No one should be able to leave, or join, but somehow, _Philza_ of all people has managed it.

_Why?_

A swift assessment of Philza's code brings the answer, and Dream's blood runs cold.

He's seen the likes of this code before, entwined with the lifeblood of Wilbur Soot and Tommy Innit and Technoblade. Those three couldn't be more different, and so it's no surprise that they probably have no idea how deeply interlaced their code is with each other. Dream's admin code is the only thing that lets him see the inner workings of the bonds they've forged as brothers (frayed as those bonds may be, now). The fact that Philza bears traces of that same code does not bode well. It _does_ answer some old questions, though - sates some amused curiosities toying around in Dream's mind.

Dream feels his time running out as Philza loads into the world that he has no right to trespass in. A dozen other distractions vie for Dream's attention - fireworks, the flicker of redstone, the sound of young boys screaming - so his work is crude, but in the span of a few seconds, the edits are performed, just as quickly and discreetly as they were for Wilbur and Tommy and Technoblade.

Philza spawns into Dream's server a few seconds later than he should have, absent a weight Dream cannot allow him to carry on his back. His code has drawn him straight to Wilbur Soot, and if Philza seems... diminished, neither men question it, not that there is much time left for questions at all.

Dream smiles behind his mask, and settles back to watch the chaos unfold.

* * *

Wilbur's ears are ringing, and his vision goes blurry as the shockwaves hit. The back of his skull slams into the wall as the first explosion rips the room apart, sunlight pouring in through the gaping hole in the stone. The light stings his eyes as the smoke stings his throat, as the saltwater trails sting his cheeks - there are screams, somewhere down below. Terror and shock and _fury._ As the explosions hit the water, plumes of steam tangle with the black smoke, the ash, the debris blown into the sky.

As the ground in the center of L'Manberg is blown apart, the flames ignite. They consume grass, buildings, _people -_ Wilbur struggles to his knees, scrambling forward to the edge of the hole in the wall. He's forgotten, for a moment, the man standing stiff as a statue behind him, staring out in horror at the people scrambling like ants down below. In this moment, all Wilbur can think of is the flames.

They burn so brightly, like the sun, with a roar that echoes something long unspoken in his throat. A smile cracks over his face as a laugh wrenches free, a croaking, brittle thing that scrapes against his teeth. Smoke fills his lungs, and he feels more alive than he has in a long, _long_ time.

It’s almost a shame it all has to end for him, just as soon as it’s begun.

Staggering to his feet, Wilbur sweeps his blurry gaze over the _crater_ he's opened in the middle of L'Manberg. He hears people shouting, distantly, names he can't be bothered to remember right now. The blaze is growing more volatile, more _beautiful_ by the second, and Wilbur wants to throw himself right down into it, but at the sound of a shaking gasp behind him, he remembers with a bitter twist to his stomach that he won't get to be left alone with the flames.

_"Wil-"_

He rounds sharply on his heel, unsteady, almost tipping backward over the edge of the cliff. Phil's gaze - his _father's_ gaze - snaps to meet his, green eyes wide with horror, and maybe heartbreak. Wilbur's grin stretches painfully broad across his face as he flings his arms apart, feeling the heat of the flames scorch his back.

" _My_ L'Manberg, Phil!" he screams. "My unfinished symphony, forever unfinished!"

The fringes of his father's striped coat billow behind him, the smoke curling at his shoulders. It seems to Wilbur like there's less of him here than there should be, as if the explosions shook away part of Phil's foundations. Wilbur wants him to ball his fists and shout, to scream at Wilbur just like everyone else has - call him crazy for wanting to Schlatt gone, crazy for wanting _flame_ to consume all that's left behind of what he tried to build - but he just keeps _staring,_ silent in his disbelief.

The flames at Wilbur's back beckon him with a snarl and surge of warmth.

Someone's screaming his name from down below. It might be Tommy.

He barely hears it above the clatter of metal against stone, as he rips his sword from his sheathe and throws it to Phil's feet.

"Kill me, Phil," he demands, _begs,_ "do it, right now - stab me, _murder_ me - Phil, kill me, _please-"_

This place has eaten him alive, devoured all the warmth that used to burn inside him, and not even the conflagration he's wrought today is enough to stave off the _cold_ inside his chest. Something's been _wrong_ inside him for longer than he's been able to remember feeling _right,_ and nothing he's done has fixed it, not all the wars, not Schlatt's death, not even blowing up L'Manberg-

He locks eyes with his father as Phil picks up the sword.

"You're my _son-"_ Phil grates out, and Wilbur isn't sure if it's an accusation, or a reassurance, or something else entirely.

"Kill me!" Wilbur snaps, voice cracking in desperation, "kill me, Phil, do it, _do it-"_

The sword slips neatly between his ribs.

(He wishes he couldn't hear how Tommy screams, all the way down below.)

His legs give out beneath him, and Phil's arms are there to catch him when he falls, like they have so many times before. The crimson bleeding out of him still feels so cold, like a river of ice, while the flames outside feel so invitingly _warm._ His chin sags against the crook of Phil's neck, and his father's body _trembles,_ a sound leaving his lips that might be a sob, only he's never heard his father cry.

As his heartbeat skips, stutters, goes still - Phil's hand clings to the fabric on his back, between his shoulder blades, and it feels so wrong, and so _right,_ and he doesn't understand it at all. He doesn't understand the sudden ache that wells up inside him, the bitter grief for an absence he doesn't remember feeling before just now. He's made it this far without grief or regret for what he's done to his nation, his friends, his _brothers -_ but as Phil holds him tight and his touch grazes that space between his shoulders, he feels something _missing,_ and he has no time at all to wonder what it could be.

(He thinks, in his last flickers of consciousness, that he should taste blood - but the only thing he tastes before it all goes dark is ash.)

* * *

Phil is given no time to regret, no time to grieve the loss of his son, no time to wonder _why_ it was so easy to kill him, why he didn't _hesitate._

He hears the sound of Techno roaring something at the top of his lungs, hears Tommy shouting back, hears people he has never met screaming-

And then he hears the all-too-familiar detonations of wither skulls, sees the sky go dark overhead. Clutching Wilbur's sword in a white-knuckled grip - ignoring the blood still staining its edge - he gently rests Wilbur's body on the floor of the broken room, and jumps over the cracked ledge to join the fray. The fall is farther than he realizes, and he hits hard enough to bruise, maybe even break something, but he's too numb to feel any pain. He isn't sure why he thought jumping was such a good idea, but urgency spurs him to action before he can pause for any semblance of thought.

One of his sons is dead, because he was too slow to save him.

He won't be losing the others today.

* * *

Techno's head swims, discordant voices screaming for _blood_ in his ears. He barely remembers setting off the withers, but he remembers screaming for his youngest brother to _die -_ die in flames, die in L'Manberg, like his twin-

_Wilbur-_

Techno, the _Blade,_ the Blood God - he isn't supposed to feel things like others do, he isn't supposed to _regret,_ he isn't supposed to ache with grief or pain, and he _never_ runs away from a fight-

But when he sees the blood on the sword in Phil's hand, dark red and drying black, flaking off the metal like ash-

He turns away from the crater of L'Manberg, leaving the others to fight the withers. He pulls out his trident and flings himself into the sky, into the only place he properly feels free, or _safe._ He doesn't care if anyone sees him, they can _burn_ in the fires Wilbur has created, for all he cares. He hits the river and flings himself north as plumes of smoke and steam curl into the air behind him, a wasteland in his wake.

He doesn't look back, even while he feels something break deep inside him - an ember of hope, of loyalty, of _love,_ that he's clung to all this time, finally sputtering and going dim.

* * *

Tommy and Phil meet in the aftermath, in the ruins of the tiny nation Tommy gave _everything_ to build - his discs, his blood, sweat, and tears, his friendships, and now _both_ his older brothers. _Gone_ , in one way or another. No one else noticed - too busy fighting off the fucking _withers_ his shithead older brother decided to spawn - but he saw Techno fleeing with his trident, running away like a fucking _coward_ right after Tommy's world was ripped apart at the seams.

A loud and angry part of Tommy wants to laugh at Techno for being such a coward.

(A tiny, bitter part of him doesn't blame Techno at all.)

With Phil's help - _Phil's_ help, what the _fuck_ is Phil doing here?? - the withers go down quickly, most of their damage dealt only to buildings already devastated by Wilbur's TNT. Wither poison nearly takes out a few of the less skilled fighters, but those who survived the first wave of explosions are still standing when it all finally falls quiet. Some bodies lay among the rubble, but most are lucky to escape with wounds that will heal, given time.

Not everyone, though.

It takes hours to douse the flames. It takes hours for Tommy to muster the courage to walk up the hill to the room with the song scribbled on the walls, the room where Wilbur pressed that fucking button, the room where Phil-

Tubbo stumbles behind him, nursing a bad limp and a cut on his head. Tommy's arm still hangs crookedly in its socket, dislocated but no longer in pain. They've left the others behind to assess damage and tend wounds and mourn the dead - no one else is mourning Wilbur, not even _Phil,_ he's too busy, he's the least scathed of all of them and the only one sane enough to _do_ anything of use - so Tommy has to be the one to do it. Tubbo, ever stubborn, ever loyal, follows right at his heels.

Tommy feels like he's going to throw up when he drags himself over the ledge and peers into the darkened ruins of the room.

A jolt of cold pierces his stomach.

Wilbur's body is gone. The room is half caved in, scorched by flame - if Tommy _looked,_ maybe he'd find something, some remnant of his brother's corpse, but-

He tastes bile in the back of his throat, and doubles over, retching until his throat is raw. Tubbo is at his side in an instant, rubbing between his shoulders, something that's always soothed Tommy faster than even the sound of his precious music discs. He waits patiently at Tommy's side until his breaths finally steady out, and he dares another glance back into that room, just in case maybe he just went temporarily blind or some shit-

But no. Wilbur's body - there's just nothing left.

(Tommy supposes it's a mercy that there's nothing left they could bury. Schlatt's funeral wasn't pretty, and for all the pain Wilbur put him through, he wouldn't wish that fate on his brother.)

"I'm so sorry," Tubbo whispers, somehow managing to stand firm as Tommy leans against him, shaking on his knees.

Tommy's nose has been bleeding for hours now, a slow, thin trickle. It's mostly crusted and dry beneath his nostrils by this point - and it remains dry, even now. His chest aches like it's about to split open, but no tears leak from his eyes. None left inside him, it seems - all burned up by the fires, lost in the smoke. One last cruelty his insane, tormented older brother elected to inflict upon Tommy before he begged their father to kill him.

It's here that Phil finally finds them. For some reason Tommy doesn't recognize the sound of his footsteps - he knows Techno's by heart, and Tubbo's, and he still knows what Wilbur used to sound like - but the sound of Phil's footfalls, crunching heavy in the piled ash and dirt, ring _wrong_ to his ears. Drawing in a huffy breath, he forces himself to his feet, slowly turning to face his father for the first time in far, _far_ too many months.

"Tommy," Phil breathes out, relief and shame both vying for dominance in his expression. "Can we talk?"

Tommy gives Tubbo a sidelong glance. Tubbo nods faintly, giving a flash of a supportive smile, squeezing Tommy's hand before he limps away to join the others on the outskirts of the crater. Tommy shifts uneasily on his feet, hunched forward and anxious under his father's all-too-gentle, all-too-remorseful gaze.

When he musters the will to speak, the words come out bitter. "Why'd you come here?" he grates out, his voice low, tired. "Why _now?"_

Phil's flinch is a subtle motion. It's eerie, Tommy thinks, how little he expresses himself with his body. His face does most of the talking, and sometimes he wrings his hands, but - well, Tommy can't help but feel like there's something amiss. He remembers talking with his father when he was younger, when they all still lived in Phil's private world, before Techno strayed to uncharted territories and distant servers, before Tommy and Wilbur ended up _here._ He remembers afternoons in blazing hot summers, full of laughter - he remembers early winter mornings, dark and long, plagued by nightmares. In all of these memories, Phil is - Phil is himself, just as he is standing before Tommy now, but it feels like there's _more_ of him in those memories. Larger, grander, laughter rippling through the air around him, warmth radiating through the space surrounding his body.

Now his father feels cold, distant. Like Wilbur, towards the end.

"I should've come sooner," Phil says quietly. "If I'd known - I tried to send you boys messages, just to see how everything was going here, but I never heard back. I knew - I knew you were having trouble, but I thought when Techno went to help, it would-"

His words cut off with a sharp intake of breath. The cold feeling in the pit of Tommy's stomach worsens.

"But you came _today,"_ Tommy croaks. (Today, and not fast enough.)

Phil rubs the back of his neck. Tommy tries not to acknowledge the sword hanging from his hip, the ash-stains covering the blood now. "I don't... I wish I knew why, Toms," Phil murmurs. "I just... it was a gut feeling, y'know? I could feel something wrong, with - with you, and Techno, and - and Wil - I couldn't get into the server at first, and then I locked onto Wil, and it wasn't - I wasn't enough."

Tommy chews the inside of his lip. "Not your fault," he mutters. "He's been insane for a while now."

He hates how heartbroken Phil looks, but it's the truth. He's not sure when he really lost his brother - _brothers -_ but they've been fueled by anger and hate and something Tommy thinks has to be _grief_ for so long now, it's hard to remember them being like anything else.

(He knows, deep down, he's the same way - they're cut from the same cloth, forged from the same mold.)

(Birds of a feather.)

"I don't know why it would-" Phil is rambling, in hushed tones, as if he's trying as much to reassure _himself_ as Tommy, "I thought it would - help. I don't know why. When he - when he asked me to-" His voice cracks. "I shouldn't have listened to him."

Tommy snorts. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."

Phil doesn't laugh. The silence quickly becomes unbearable.

"I'm sorry, Tommy," Phil says, and Tommy doesn't cry, but he feels like he might crumble to dust at the slightest breeze. Before he can stop himself, he's shaking, breaths coming quick between clenched teeth - and before he knows it, Phil's arms are around him, holding him lopsidedly, careful not to press on his dislocated arm. Tommy shudders and leans heavily into his father's embrace, the embrace he took a long time to trust as a scared, runaway child, but has never _stopped_ trusting once he figured out that there are no limits to Phil's love for his sons.

(No limits. Tommy hates that this now includes giving in when one son begs for death at his hands.)

There is nowhere in the world - in _any_ world - that feels safer than Phil's arms, except maybe Techno's, though his hugs are a boon rarely bestowed. Tommy wants to melt into the embrace, let himself feel _safe_ in a way he hasn't felt in so long, since long before Pogtopia, before L'Manberg - but this time, the embrace feels incomplete. Tommy isn't sure where the absence lies. Maybe it's in him, in how close he guards himself these days, from everyone except Tubbo. The fault can't possibly lie with Phil - Tommy understands how hard it is to get in and out of Dream's server, Phil came as fast as he could, it's _not his fault-_

So it has to be something wrong with Tommy. What else is new.

(He couldn't save his nation, he couldn't save his brother. Now he can't even properly let his father comfort him in the simplest way they know how.)

When Phil lets go, Tommy still feels so cold. He musters a half-smile anyway, for his father's sake. Phil's hand lingers on his shoulders, in the same space Tubbo's hand usually comes to rest whenever he thinks Tommy's anxieties are getting the better of him (which they never do. He's got it under control.) For a moment, Phil's brow knits together, his fingers curling into the ridge of Tommy's spine, thumb grazing the inner crease of his shoulder blade.

The subtle weight of Phil's hand makes Tommy feel strangely hollow. He shakes the feeling off as Phil removes his hand and clears his throat. "We should get your arm looked at," he says, a thin note of desperation lacing his tone.

Tommy almost dismisses the concern out of habit - he got used to fending for himself in Pogtopia, when Techno was busy stocking his armory and Wilbur was spiraling out of control - but he bites his tongue and gives a halfhearted shrug. "If you say so. Doesn't really hurt anymore, though."

Judging by the way Phil grimaces, that was the wrong thing to say. They stick close together as they make their way down to the makeshift triage camp set up on the outskirts of the crater, in one of the most intact buildings. Phil hovers at Tommy's side, his silhouette hazy in Tommy's peripheral vision. Whether it's due to exhaustion - or quite possibly an explosion-induced concussion - Tommy keeps glimpsing a dark shadow clinging to his father, or a pair of shadows, framing his head. They disappear when he looks directly at Phil, though, so he chalks them up to hallucinations. (It wouldn't be the first time. The shadows in Pogtopia were always playing tricks on him.)

As they walk, Tommy vaguely notices the scavengers have set in, now that the smoke is cleared. There were animals caught in the explosions, livestock and dogs; the birds have come down to pick at them. Mostly crows. A couple ravens, here and there. Their throaty cries and the flutter of their night-black wings makes Tommy's heart ache, though he hasn't the faintest fucking clue why. How the hell can he feel almost _nothing_ for Wilbur, for Techno, but some fucking - some fucking _pests_ make him want to scream-

"-ommy?"

Phil's voice wrenches him back to reality. He shudders, only just now realizing he's halted in place, standing amidst the rubble. The wind whines above them, the scavengers picking at the offerings in the crater - and Phil's hands are on his shoulders, steadying him. It's dark now, sun freshly set, still staining the sky with dull red - and the moon is rising in the east, framing Phil from behind.

"Tommy, mate, just breathe in slowly, can you do that for me?"

Why is he shaking? Why _now??_

Tommy wants to collapse, wants his father to hold him, shield him - he wants to remember how to _fucking breathe-_

A distant sound startles the birds in the crater. They take flight, dark feathers scattering in the sky behind Phil, and something-

Something clicks. A nagging doubt, a mislaid detail, finally slotting into place in the back of Tommy's mind. The sound of footsteps both heavier and lighter than they should be, the absence of a certain warmth in an embrace-

Almost as soon as it clicks, something else presses down on his skull, insisting he's _wrong._ He struggles against this alien feeling with all the strength he's got, his stubbornness winning out in the end as he finally _breathes_ and stares wide-eyed at Phil. The birds are all long gone now, but he could swear he still sees the feathers, dark and soft to the touch, muffling sound, warm and safe-

"Tommy, what's wrong?" Phil asks, concern plastered all over his face, the rest of his body so still, the part that should be doing the talking for his emotions not visible, not even there at _all-_

Tommy struggles for words, for _sense,_ because right now there sure as hell doesn't seem to be any. It's absurd, this thing he thinks he's supposed to be seeing - no, he _knows_ he should be seeing it. That's how his father has _always been,_ ever since they've known each other - it's what makes him _whole,_ as much as being father to three boys who stumbled into his grasp makes him whole. It's part of what makes him the safest place to seek refuge, it's just - without _this,_ there isn't _Phil._

So why aren't they _there?_ Why didn't Tommy _notice?_

Why hasn't _Phil_ noticed?

"Phil," Tommy croaks, barely breathing, barely comprehending the words as they leave his lips, "where... where are your wings?"

The silence that follows this question is worse than all those that have come before. Phil's hands slip instantly from Tommy's shoulders, falling limp at his sides as he steps back, brow furrowed with absolute confusion. A harrowing moment passes where time seems to stop altogether, and Tommy wonders if maybe he really is just seeing things that _don't exist,_ and now Phil knows he's crazy, too, just like Wilbur was-

Phil's mouth opens, closes, opens again, a shaky breath creaking between his lips. All the color drains from his face as confusion gives way to dawning horror, and the response he finally gives is one that shakes Tommy to his core.

"...Tommy," Phil whispers, and the world comes apart at the seams all over again, "where are _yours??"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh boy the SBI fam sure is in for it now


	2. light carries on (even after death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy and Phil grapple with uncertain realizations, and a familiar face resurfaces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the response to the first chapter! I'm glad you're all as excited as I am for this fic :D
> 
> -
> 
> (Chapter title from "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last)

There's a crackle of static in Phil's ears, a heavy, woolen pressure fogging up his brain. The world feels like it tilts on its axis, threatening to dislodge him, threatening to send him spiraling into the Void below. He barely hears his own stunned words as they leave his lips, his mind reeling as the pressure breaks, as sensation rushes back - as the absence between his shoulders turns from a vague annoyance to a raw, gnawing _ache._

It's no wonder, he realizes with a surge of horror, how his balance has felt _off_ all day, how he's felt so vulnerable fighting withers on the _ground,_ how his endurance seems to give out too soon as he runs - his coat has _slits_ cut into the fabric over his shoulders, for Primes' sake, he can feel the night breeze against his skin through them, how did it take an entire _day_ to remember _why-_

As the foundations crumble beneath and within Phil, Tommy compounds his shock by backpedaling with palpable bewilderment. "I don't - what the fuck are you talking about?? I don't have _wings."_

_No no nononononono-_

Wrong. It's all wrong.

Alarms sound off in Phil's head as he hears footsteps steadily approaching; gripping Tommy's shoulder tight, he locks onto his youngest son with a severe stare. "Don't say anything about this," he hisses under his breath, desperately. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. When there's fewer ears to hear it, okay?"

The fact that Tommy _immediately_ goes quiet, without protest, sets off a slew of entirely different warning bells. The boy Phil raised never did what he was told so quickly - always at least a few belligerent complaints, before compliance. But now, he clamps his mouth shut, giving Phil a tiny nod. Phil wants to drag him into a hug, pull him away from the crater to somewhere _safe,_ somewhere he can tend Tommy's wounds alone and wrap him warmly in his - in his-

_Where are they??_

He barely manages to maintain a pretense of composure as the woman - Niki, he wants to think is her name - makes her way to them through the rubble, quietly insisting Tommy come to the tents and get his injuries looked at. Phil trails behind them as they walk, heart pounding in his chest, his eyes never leaving Tommy's back - the familiar hunch, the crooked posture, a spine curling under a weight that _isn't there anymore-_

Phil escaped the explosions, the withers, without a scratch, but he feels like he's about to pass out where he stands. His hands tremble at his sides, goosebumps prickling along his skin, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He's too vulnerable, _without them,_ he's ground-bound like all the rest of these people and he's _never_ been so exposed as he is now, and he knows, he knows, he _knows_ that this is so much worse than the normal disorientation caused by a fresh spawn into an unfamiliar server.

He's lived a good while longer than his boys. He's traveled to more servers, seen strange and eerie worlds, when he deigns to venture from the worlds he stakes as his own - his monuments to his survivalist skills, worlds he conquered, worlds he _soared_ above. He's met many admins, won and lost trials and tournaments, seen the best and the worst of what the vast tapestry of servers has to offer - earned reputations and then distanced himself from them, stumbled into unexpected nicknames - they used to call him _Angel of Death-_

As Tommy's wounds are tended to, as the survivors of Wilbur and Techno's unraveling talk quietly of _rebuilding,_ Phil stands silently at the edge of their camp and stares up at the moon. He still wears the sword that's stained with his son's blood, and he wonders - he wonders why Wilbur let it happen, why he didn't just _fly away._

With a sickening twist to his stomach, he wonders if Wilbur was like Tommy - if Techno is like him, too-

If they've forgotten.

_If **he** made them forget-_

Phil's heard the survivors of L'Manberg whisper the name, a few times. He's yet to see the man in person, though. This server admin named Dream.

He's met many admins in his days. They aren't always good people.

(He has never met one he would call _cruel.)_

When Tommy finally succumbs to sleep, curled up on a cot near Tubbo, Phil stands guard over both of them. No one speaks to him that night - no one speaks at all, really. They just sit and stare out at the crater, still tasting smoke and blood and ash. Phil spends the night awake, haunted by a hazy storm of memories that struggle to fit back into their rightful place in his mind, code breaking down as he struggles to process the overwhelming surge-

(Code breaks down. Blood always remembers.)

He spends the whole night awake, jaw clenched, trying to feel the space inside him where the wings are supposed to reside, on those rare occasions when he must withdraw them. No matter how far he reaches down, deep into the core of his being, they slip awake like smoke through his fingertips. He may not be able to see it, but he can _feel_ how his code is tangled and misaligned, _fractured_ as horrifically as the city in which he stands. He has ideas on how to repair one of them. The other-

His throat tightens as his hand rests on Tommy's back, massaging between his shoulders while he whimpers in restless sleep.

(He wonders, absently, bitterly, if Tommy is dreaming about wings.)

* * *

They don't talk about it tomorrow.

They don't talk about it for _weeks,_ in fact. There is so much to be done rebuilding L'Manberg, and each day Phil has to _fight_ to remember what Tommy said to him, his voice cracking, his eyes bright with confusion. There are days when he wakes up and the absence on his shoulders can barely be felt, until he stands on too high a precipice and feels the wind at his back and his heart _burns_ with an agony he cannot describe. He wants so badly to hope that this is just some nightmare he has yet to wake from.

But the nightmare is as real as the faded bloodstains on his sword. As real as the scars New L'Manberg and its people.

Phil learns so many names in those first weeks. Most blur together, but a few stand out. Eret, the man who betrayed Phil's sons for a crown he no longer wears, whose remorse hangs around him like a dark, heavy cloak. Niki, the one who bandages the boys' wounds, whose eyes are red and blotchy - the only one who weeps for Wilbur Soot, when she thinks no one can see her. Tubbo, who doesn't deserve the burden of leadership. Quackity, whose eyes gleam with hatred when he spits Techno's name.

The wanted posters go up as soon as the crater is flooded and the canals are carved, as soon as the platforms are built. Phil stares at them longer than he should.

(He wonders how far Techno has run. He hasn't answered any of Phil's messages. It's like he's joined his twin in the Void, and that thought scares Phil so fucking much.)

Phil learns so many names, meets so many people. His calloused hands are raw from the work of rebuilding, and he barely sees Tommy at all, his youngest shifting away from him in the quiet moments, the horrible unspoken question weighing over their heads like an avalanche. Tommy's wounds heal quickly (hybrids are known to heal fast, aren't they) and he plunges into the work of rebuilding with the same desperation as Phil. Anything to keep focused. Anything to avoid confronting the truth neither of them dare accept.

For a couple weeks, Phil plays along.

Then he meets Dream.

Their first encounter could not possibly happen at a worse time. It's been raining for days now, a cold and dreary storm that's driven most of New L'Manberg's citizens indoors, into houses that are still only halfway built. Phil's built his own house, a small one overlooking the floating center of the tiny city. It isn't much, but it's sturdy, and warm, and insulated from the rain - he's had few visitors here and there, most of them asking for help, a couple just desperate for conversation with someone fresh to the server, curious for news of worlds beyond the boundaries of the inflexible code that won't let anyone leave this place.

Phil's had the house a week when he gets two unexpected visitors in a single night, one following concerningly close at the other's heels.

When he opens the door the first time, hearing a quiet knock, he's startled to find Tommy hunched beneath his awning, absolutely drenched. He's hugging his arms to his chest, shivering, his expression dazed. Phil doesn't hesitate to pull him inside, guiding him over to the crackling fire in the corner of the main room. He grabs a blanket from a chest and drapes it over Tommy's shoulders, his heart aching dully - he should be able to do more, embrace his son with _something more._ Something warmer and softer than an old wool blanket. 

"...I don't fuckin' know what's going on anymore," Tommy mumbles under his breath after a minute of tense silence.

Phil holds back a shaky sigh, resisting the urge to reply with a somber _'me too, mate'._ He simply sits at Tommy's side, patiently waiting for the dam to break - and break it does, as Tommy shudders and curls into himself, eyes wide as he stares at the fireplace. (The flames reflect in his eyes, and Phil is certain he's hearing the explosions in his head, same way Phil does - same way _everyone_ does. It never should've gotten this far. He should've been here sooner.)

"Every fucking time I wake up, I feel like I'm gonna be back in that ravine, and he's - he's gonna start shouting about Tubbo or Techno or traitors or some shit-" Tommy grasps the sides of his head with his hands, knees tucked up to his chest. Phil shifts so they're facing each other and he rests a steady hand on Tommy's knee, gently pressing his lips into Tommy's wet hair as Tommy rambles, "I can't - it doesn't feel like he's gone yet, and I don't fucking know what to do-"

Phil's sure Wilbur isn't the only thing on Tommy's mind. His hand strays up to Tommy's back, rubbing slow circles over the dip between his shoulder blades, and Tommy-

Tommy flinches.

The house goes quiet, save for the gentle crackle of the flames.

Phil's pulse quickens as Tommy uncurls, lifting his head to reveal red, blotchy eyes. It's hard to tell if he's cried at all, or if the moisture on his face is just from the rain. Either way, he looks about three seconds from a breakdown as he fixes on Phil with a half-manic look and whispers, "Phil, why - why did you - you asked, you asked where my _wings_ are, but I don't - I don't _have_ wings, Phil." He lets out a shaky laugh. "I think - I mean, I think I'd fucking _know_ if I did, wouldn't I??"

His words are rushed, desperate. Like he's trying to convince himself of something that Phil knows in his heart _isn't fucking true._

But Tommy's right. He _should_ know, and yet he doesn't, and Phil has no idea how to explain to his son what's happened. He barely understands it himself - he _doesn't_ understand it - but there is only one explanation that is at all feasible for what's happened, and it chills him to the bone to think about it. To think of someone taking their code apart, unraveling the essence of their _being,_ taking Phil's wonderful boys and ripping them apart, leaving them hollow and aching with no comprehension of _why-_

How does one explain the loss of something so vital? How can Phil possibly find the words to describe it?

(Looking into Tommy's eyes - the fear, the confusion, the simmering _anger_ within them - he wonders if there's really a need to say anything at all.)

"Phil, why haven't you brought out your wings since you got here?" Tommy asks under his breath, tone strained.

A terrible ache wells up inside of Phil's chest. "I... I can't," he admits. "Believe me, I've tried." He gives Tommy a serious stare, grasping his son's hands and squeezing them gently as he wishes he could raise two voluminous curtains of black feathers around them both and block out the rest of the world. "Tommy, I need you to listen to me, and I mean _really_ listen. When you asked me about my wings, I - at first I had no idea what you were talking about. And I think..." A shaky breath in. A long exhale out. "I think whatever happened to me... it happened to you, too. All three of you."

Tommy's nostrils flare, his jaw clenching as his breaths quicken. His eyes twitch, shifting between a thousand-yard-stare and flashes of horror and _fury._ "But I'm not a _hybrid,"_ he protests feebly. "I'm not - I'm just _not."_

"Tommy," Phil insists, voice rising despite his best efforts to remain calm. "You trust me, right?"

It's a question he's never had to ask since he formally adopted Tommy as his own, but after everything that's happened - after his failure to reach out to them sooner, after leaving them to fight wars on their own, after _Wilbur -_ it wouldn't surprise him if Tommy had lost that trust that once seemed absolute.

Phil could almost cry with relief when Tommy tentatively nods, tight-lipped. Swallowing a tight lump in his throat, Phil says, "Then trust me, Tommy. I know it's a lot to take in, and I know it's... probably really scary to doubt your own perceptions, but something is - something is wrong with our code." _Someone has **broken** our code, someone has reached inside and ripped you apart and you don't even remember what it is you've lost- _"Maybe I can remember it better because I've only been here a little while, but - I know what's real, Tommy, I know what's _true,_ and the truth is - you're a hybrid, same as me."

(His boys were made to soar upon the winds and _someone has torn them from the sky.)_

Tommy shakes his head again, but Phil can sense the lack of conviction behind it. He stares listlessly over Phil's shoulder toward the door. "I would _know,"_ he intones hollowly. "If I was - if I had - I wouldn't just _forget,_ Phil-"

"It's not your fault," Phil says immediately, pressing a palm to Tommy's cheek and coaxing his son to _look_ at him. "I don't know exactly what's happened to you and your brothers, but we'll figure it out together, yeah?"

(Tommy doesn't question the plural. Neither of them are used to Wilbur being gone yet.)

Tommy's brow furrows, confusion returning. A slowly dawning realization shifts in his expression, and Phil waits patiently - anxiously - for it to click into place. When it does, Tommy stiffens. His Adam's Apple bobs as he swallows, chewing his lower lip as he strings words together slowly. "But... why _us?"_ he murmurs, distantly, as if he's more talking to himself, rather than to Phil. "There's - there's other hybrids here - Eret and Sam and - and Tubbo, and Schlatt was, too. Why are _we_ the only ones who're broken??"

Phil's hand curls into Tommy's shoulder. He doesn't have an answer, not one he can give with complete confidence, but-

Avians have always been rare. In every server Phil has visited, his wings have been admired, coveted, _feared._ He can't remember almost anything about his boys' wings - the memories are still shrouded in static and fog - but he's certain they've would've received similar reactions in the worlds they traveled to. He's certain they would've been used to lingering stares, jealous murmurs, spiteful sneers. He knows his boys faced all that and more before he found them, and while he can't remember doing so, he's sure he would've helped them prepare better for next time, when they ventured out on their own.

But there is _nothing_ that can prepare oneself for _this._ It's not a fate Phil ever envisioned for them. Server admins have been known to impose restrictions, limitations on code, but Phil has never heard of hybrids being so grotesquely _violated_ like this. It makes him sick to his stomach in a way that is worse than anything he has ever felt - including the shock and remorse of killing his own son. Death for Wilbur was swift, at least. _This_ is a slow pain, a _devouring_ pain, that has been leeching away at his sons probably for as long as each of them have been in this server.

In _Dream's_ server.

Phil has never given much credit to the notion of fate - he believes in chance and luck and horrible, awful coincidences - but it feels, just a little bit, like fate is twisting his strings, _mocking_ him, as his thoughts stray to Dream, and a knock sounds on his front door. This knock comes as a series of loud thumps, each one deliberate, so unlike the quiet rapping of Tommy's knuckles against the wood. Instantly, Tommy freezes, locking fearful eyes with Phil. They wait, clinging to each other, perhaps hoping fate will be kind for once, and they'll be left alone for the night.

The next knock is more insistent, and Phil can no longer pretend to ignore it.

"Stay here," he says under his breath, leaving Tommy underneath the cover of the blanket, just slightly out of view from the doorway. Phil doesn't wear his sword when he walks to the door, but it rests on a shelf underneath a nearby window, close at hand. (For all the good it would do him.) Steeling himself with a deep breath, he eases the door open a crack, a sudden chill in his spine giving him a pretty good idea of who is waiting on the other side.

The figure on his doorstep is... not quite what he expects. The man is adorned with a worn green hoodie, a plain white mask with a smile etched into it obscuring the entirety of his face, a tuft of blond hair barely peeking out. He stands with his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie, completely unarmored, the diamond axe strapped to his back seemingly there only an as an afterthought.

Static shrieks in Phil's head when he meets his visitor's unseen gaze.

"So," the man begins, his tone disturbingly upbeat, "you're Philza, huh?"

He hears Tommy shift off to the side. The man is on his stairs, not able to see past Phil into the house, but at the tiniest sound from Tommy, the man cocks his head to the side, the smile on his face almost seeming to warp with the motion. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you had company," he says innocently. "I won't be too long, then." He extends a hand. Phil only just now notices that despite the rain pouring down, this man is completely dry. "I just wanted to make some formal introductions. Since you've been in my server a few weeks now, and you've been helping rebuild L'Manberg and all - figured now was a good time to express my gratitude for everything you've done. Unexpected as it was."

Phil's pulse roars in his ears. Behind him, Tommy moves again, getting to his feet - Aether above, Tommy's _walking over,_ blanket discarded, his expression hard like stone as he slinks over toward the door, just out of view-

"I take it you're Dream?" he manages to reply, trying not to glance in Tommy's direction.

The masked man nods. (The static crackles, overwhelming.) "The one and only."

Phil has always had excellent control over his temper. He's _glacially_ slow to anger, except when his family is threatened - and this man, this _Dream -_ every instinct in Phil's head is screaming _threat, threat, threat._ He feels his control slipping as he grits his teeth and says flatly, "You're the admin of this server. You could've stopped all this." The explosions, the withers, _Wilbur._ "You could've helped rebuild. Why are you only showing up now?"

The mask hides any reaction. The most Dream gives him is a light shrug, seemingly unaffected by Phil's brazen disrespect. "I've been trying to tie up loose ends." There's a miniscule shift to his posture - a slight lean forward, an adjustment of weight from heel to toe. Warning bells go off in Phil's head when Dream asks casually, "I don't suppose you've heard anything from Technoblade since the battle, have you?"

Phil blinks slowly. He considers feigning ignorance. No one else on the server - aside from Tubbo - knows yet that Wilbur and Techno and Tommy are _his_ boys, though he's sure some of the more attentive ones have guessed it. It's a quiet lie of omission, one maintained out of shame and guilt, but Dream isn't just some random citizen, he is this world's _admin,_ and much as Phil is loath to admit it - he _knows_ Dream has seen his code.

Dream already knows, so there's no point in playing the fool. Phil holds in a breath and stares him down, and in response he offers only tired honesty.

"No, I haven't heard anything from him," he says, a cold edge creeping into his tone. "We haven't spoken in a long time." Several years, at least. Phil and his eldest have always been creatures of habit, diving deep into their obsessions, withdrawing from friends and family alike for months on end. Techno was like that when Phil first took the twins under his - _under his wing_ \- and Phil doubts he'll ever change. He's never faulted his eldest for the way he distances himself from attachments, from contact, but now - Aether above, he wishes his son would just _talk_ to him. Give him _something,_ so he didn't have to face the admin of this server and tell a quiet, painful truth.

"Hm," Dream muses, sounding disappointed. "Well, that's a shame. I'm surprised he hasn't reached out to you, of all people."

Phil's jaw tightens. Tommy lurks in his peripheral vision, the corner of his mouth twitching. Phil needs Dream to _leave,_ right now, but he has to play it cool, has to stay calm-

"I'm sorry, you know," Dream says, a regretful-sounding sigh on his breath. "About Wilbur. I'm sure that wasn't easy for you."

Dream might as well have slammed the broadside of his axe into Phil's stomach. It probably would've hurt less. Phil stands frozen stiff, mouth hanging slightly open, barely drawing air into his lungs. For a split second the carved smile on Dream's masks seems to twitch, slipping up into a smirk, but as soon as Phil blinks, the smile is stagnant again. The world sways beneath Phil, and for a moment Dream's remorse feels genuine. For a moment Phil starts to hope that maybe, _maybe_ he was wrong, but then-

"You're so full of shit, Dream," Tommy scoffs from behind Phil. "If you really gave a shit about what happened to L'Manberg, you wouldn't have given Wilbur all that fucking TNT."

Blood roars in Phil's ears.

Dream tilts his head to the side. "Tommy. Why am I not surprised you're here?"

"Prolly 'cuz you keep stalking me, bitch," Tommy snarls, and Phil's heart leaps to his throat. "What do you really want, Dream, huh? My discs weren't enough for you? My _brother_ wasn't enough? My-"

Tommy, thank the Primes, has enough sense to cut himself off before he goes any further. Phil dares a glance back and he sees Tommy eyes shining, and it's impossible to tell if the shimmer is that of rage, or unshed tears. Heart pounding in his chest, Phil's gaze snaps back to Dream, and he finds the man hasn't moved an inch. Tommy's words don't rattle him in the slightest, and when Tommy falls quiet, he just... laughs.

"I told you, I'm looking for Technoblade." He doesn't elaborate. Phil doesn't need him to. Phil is _so_ close to picking up the sword on the windowsill - his ears haven't stopped ringing since Tommy said the word _TNT._ In hindsight he should've fucking known, the amount of TNT needed to almost level a city isn't the kind of firepower one man can acquire on his own, but to hear the confirmation spat from Tommy's lips-

It makes Phil's blood boil.

"I haven't heard from him," Phil repeats coldly, his fingernails scraping into the door as he fights down the urge to slam it shut on Dream's face. "Now unless there's something more urgent you need me for, I'd appreciate it if you would leave my house."

"Well, on the off chance he happens to get back in contact with you, I'd love it if you would let me know," Dream says affably. Phil wants to strangle him as he takes a step back down the stairs, head shifting to look past Phil's shoulder at Tommy. He offers a mock salute, tapping two fingers against his temple. "Be seeing you."

Dream doesn't even take out an ender pearl. He brazenly flaunts his admin powers; there's a crackle of static, and then his form blinks out of existence. The second he's gone, Phil slams the door shut and rounds on Tommy.

Tommy scowls. "Fuckin' dickhead. Of course he fucks off for _weeks_ and then decides to show up _now."_

"Toms," Phil whispers, "you can't just taunt him like that."

"Why not? He's a shitty green bitch-boy, always has been-"

 _"Tommy,"_ Phil hisses, grabbing his son by the shoulders, his hands shaking. "You _can't._ Not anymore, okay, mate? Don't give him any more reason to-"

The words stumble. He prays Tommy understands, because no matter how hard he tries, he can't bring himself to say it. He can hardly bring himself to _think_ about it, most days - his boys in unfamiliar lands, vulnerable, _alone_ inside themselves no matter how many people they have around them. Phil has only been here a few weeks, _diminished,_ and the absence weighs like a black hole in his chest. Tommy's been here for months, Wilbur was here for _years -_ all that time, _all that time,_ without being _whole._

What more might Dream take from them, if given an excuse?

"...Fine, I guess," Tommy concedes mulishly. "No fun in that, but sure, whatever, don't piss off green boy anymore."

_"Tommy."_

His son rolls his eyes, and only now does Phil see the depth of the dark circles beneath them, the exhaustion clinging to Tommy's frame. He wants so badly to keep them both awake a little longer, to talk about Dream and Techno and what the _fuck_ they're going to do to fix what's been broken - but his son deserves to rest. He's still so obviously struggling to believe what Phil has been trying to explain to him, and the harder he pushes, the more Phil fears Tommy will try to repress what he knows, deep down, to be true about himself, about what he's lost.

"...Are you hungry?" he asks quietly.

Tommy's brow arches. Almost on cue, his stomach growls, and he wilts. "Yeah," he mumbles, "a bit."

Phil musters a smile for his son's sake, patting him on the shoulder. "Stay tonight," he says. "You look like you're about to pass out where you stand. You can have my bed after I fix us up something to eat, okay?"

Tommy nods, tight-lipped, and Phil's heart breaks a little more. He doesn't bring up Dream again while Tommy returns to his place by the fire, still damp and shivering slightly (not entirely due to the chill). He doesn't breathe a word about Techno, or Wilbur, or wings - it's already too much, for one night. He makes them both a simple stew of vegetables, warming up a few rolls on the hearth. They don't talk at all while they eat.

The silence is both peaceful, and terrifying.

(Their two voices alone will never be enough to fill that silence, so they sit and they listen to the crackle of flames.)

Tommy eventually crawls into Phil's bed on his own, stealing an extra blanket on the way. Phil resigns himself to a night spent in a not-entirely-comfortable chair, pulled up beside the fire. He angles the chair to face the door, and he rests his sword in his lap, just in case. His eyelids flutter, a leaden weight pulling them down, but he resists the tug of slumber for as long as he can - keeping a close watch on the darkness beyond his windows, ever wary for a flash of green and a porcelain smile.

He thinks, as his vision darkens, of Techno - on his own, in the wilderness, with no one to watch his back.

Is he even still alive?

So many messages sent, and no response given. Phil's hand curls around the hilt of his sword, threads of a dazed plan coming together as unconsciousness claims him.

If Techno won't come back to them-

Phil has already lost one of his beloved twin boys.

He will chase the other to the ends of this world, if that's what it takes to get him back.

* * *

Sleep doesn't come easily to Tommy. It hasn't for weeks and weeks. 

Tonight, though, he's especially restless. Long after Phil has passed out in his chair by the fire, Tommy is still curled up in Phil's bed, shifting underneath the blanket, too hot and too cold all at once, the skin of his entire body crawling. His back itches fiercely, a gnawing ache buried all the way down to his bones. At times he feels like crying, but still - still no tears come. His eyes remain dry, even as he sniffles, his hair still damp from the rain.

Phil doesn't have a clock, and the sky is still overcast, no moon or stars in sight. He has no idea what time it is when a surge of anxious energy forces him to kick off the blankets and squirm out of bed. Over in the chair, Phil snores quietly, slumped over with his sword in his lap and his hat askew on his head. Tommy briefly wrestles with the urge to wake his father and - well, he isn't sure what he wants after that. He just feels so achingly _alone_ in his own body now, like something got blasted clear out of him in the explosions and now he can't get it back.

(The explosions, or the festival fireworks, or the arrows raining down as Schlatt laughed, or Dream smiling benignly when he first came to this server - when did he lose it? When did he lose that sense of being _him?_ He didn't feel it before, but ever since Phil's arrived, ever since Wilbur went and got himself killed, he's felt so fucking empty. He's tried to ignore it, tried to fill that space inside him, working himself to the bone to rebuild New L'Manberg, but _nothing fucking works._ )

Dragging a hand down his face, Tommy sluggishly walks over to the doors out to Phil's balcony. The air inside Phil's house is stiflingly hot, and the rain sounds like it's died down to a light drizzle. Cool fresh air greets him as he shuffles out onto the balcony, leaving the doors open behind him just a crack. He breathes in a deep, shaky inhale, bracing his hands on the balcony railing as he stares out at the dim outline of the city center below.

His gaze drifts northward, inevitably. It skates across the cliffside where the button room used to be and continues to the darkened horizon, the river curling away into the mountains.

Is Techno even on this server anymore? Did he find a way out, and did he just - did he just leave Tommy behind, again? The same way Wilbur did?

(The same way his father probably will, one of these days.)

Aether above, his brothers are such fucking assholes. He can't go one night without thinking of that stupid speech Techno gave about heroes, right before he spawned two withers and screamed at Tommy to _die._

(It doesn't matter that he only shouted those words after Wilbur was already dead. When he probably felt like dying himself so he could join his twin.)

Tommy's throat tightens with the beginnings of a sob.

It isn't fucking _fair._ He gave up so fucking much for L'Manberg, why'd he have to give up both his brothers, too?

He barely feels the breeze stirring against his skin. The rain is mostly mist at this point, condensing on his cheeks and clinging to his clothes. The droplets tapping down on Tommy's head hardly feel like anything, just more nagging little pinpricks, like the ache, the itch inside his back-

He grabs the railing until his knuckles turn white.

Phil _has_ to be wrong. Tommy would _know,_ he would have some fucking clue if he was a hybrid, if he had fucking _wings -_ there's no way he would forget that. That's not something that _can_ be forgotten, ever. There would've been some sign, right? Even if he _had_ gone and developed some kind of selective amnesia, there would've been some sign that something was wrong, he would've _noticed-_

(He has always loved building towers of cobble, so high into the sky he can't even see the ground anymore. Everyone else has always told him to be careful, to stop building so high with no safeguards in case he falls, but - he's never been afraid of falling. The winds blow so hard they threaten to knock him off those towers, but he's _never_ been afraid of being pushed off, never been afraid of the long drop and the impact at the end. He's just - not afraid. The sky has always been safe.)

A shuddering breath creaks past his teeth. His hand curls up across his chest slowly, around his shoulder.

There would have been signs.

He would know, if what Phil told him was the truth.

(He _knows._ He knows he knows he _knows_ and it fucking _hurts-)_

Tommy's mind has a funny habit of playing tricks on him at the worst possible times. He's gotten used to it by now - seeing shadows where there shouldn't be any, hearing things when no one else is around - so when he hunches over the railing, a cracked sob clawing at his throat, he doesn't register the sound of the hiss at first. It's a distant, foggy sound that could be anything, really - it sounds so far away, and he's too deep inside his own head to recognize it.

The next hiss is louder, and closer, and it rips him back to reality as hardwired reflex screams _creeper._

Wrenching away from the railing, Tommy spins on his heels to face the sound, scrambling backwards toward the door. Battle reflexes kick in as he swipes a hand out to push the creeper away, not questioning how a creeper could've possibly climbed up to the balcony in the first place, and-

There's a shape, hovering in the air just off to the side of the balcony.

His hand swipes out and passes right through it.

The shape flinches. At first it's indistinct, vaguely humanoid. Then suggestions of color filter in - a faded yellow jumper, torn pants that fade to nothingness, a dull red beanie on a head of ephemeral, wavy hair. Hands condense seemingly out the mist, translucent with an ashen pallor, reaching out towards Tommy. The face - the face is the last to become clear, as this ghostly figure leans over the railing, a smile taking shape-

There's a reedy whisper, faintly echoing.

"Tommy! Hi!"

The rest of the face comes together. The eyes are all wrong - too dull and too _happy_ at the same time - but it's - it's still-

Tommy screams.

The figure - the _ghost -_ recoils again, brow furrowing with distress as Tommy scrambles backwards. He makes it half a step before he trips over his own feet and his legs give out beneath him. His back slams into the doors, knocking them open as he falls to the ground, heart racing as shock erupts throughout him. This is it - he's finally fucking cracked, he's hallucinating fucking _ghosts,_ and he's probably going to have a heart attack just like Schlatt and then his father will be down _two_ sons-

He's distantly aware of footsteps thudding inside the house, the door yanking open the rest of the way-

The ghost moves closer, into the light. The droplets of rain hiss when they meet its skin, vapor curling into the air like steam.

"I'm sorry!" the ghost pleads. "I'm sorry, Tommy, I didn't mean to scare you-"

Tommy can't fucking breathe. Behind him, he hears the sound of a sword clattering loudly to the floorboards. Phil's voice comes out as a shaky whisper, echoing the disbelief surging inside Tommy's head. When he speaks, Tommy at least knows he isn't cracked in the head, or at least if he is, Phil has cracked right alongside him, seeing the same impossible thing, this thing that _can't exist,_ and yet floats before them, smiling with childlike glee.

"...Wil??"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha Ghostbur go brrrrrrrrrr
> 
> -
> 
> Do leave a comment if you enjoyed the chap! Even if you just end up screaming at me, I love it anyway :D


	3. left with a void in our chests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ghost makes things more complicated. Philza makes a difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from "Ghosts" by Sleeping At Last)

So.

Wilbur is a ghost.

To say that this is a lot to take in is the understatement of Phil's lifetime.

Once he gets Tommy to stop hyperventilating, he pulls them both into the house and locks the balcony doors. His sword lies forgotten on the floor for the time being as he directs Tommy to sit by the fire and focus on breathing before he passes out; the entire time, the ghost hovers anxiously beside him, wringing his wispy hands and mumbling apologies. It's - it's _surreal,_ seeing his son's incorporeal form floating in his house. He struggles desperately for an explanation, and while there's a nagging sense in the back of his head that there _must_ be one, he finds himself drawing a blank.

While Tommy and Wilbur stare at each other, neither speaking directly to one another, Phil dares to reach out and touch Wilbur's shoulder.

There's resistance against his hand, of a sort. A warm pressure that wraps around his skin as his fingers trail through the fabric of Wilbur's jumper, through his translucent ash-gray skin. It's a bit like holding his hand up close to a hearth full of dying embers. (It's strange. He doesn't remember Wilbur feeling warm like this when he drove a sword through his chest. Back then, he just felt so painfully cold.)

Wilbur squirms at the contact, drifting a few inches away, out of reach. "I'm sorry," he says again, in that eerie, echoing voice. "You probably don't want me here either, just like Fundy. He screamed at me, too. Screamed a lot of things, actually. He didn't want to take any blue."

Phil blinks slowly. Still fresh from sleep, his brain hasn't fully caught up to the situation; the mention of the young fox-hybrid's name results in a sluggish double-take. "Was-" His mouth is dry, voice cracking. "Was that where you went first??"

Wilbur nods, looking crestfallen. "Mhm! But he wasn't very happy to see me." His gaze drops to his hands, and Phil catches a glimpse of something staining his palms, tinted a deep, vivid shade of blue - a striking contrast against his skin. "I must've hurt him, didn't I?" Slowly, his eyes drift up towards Phil, then to Tommy. "I hurt a lot of people, I think. Is that right? I can't - I can't really remember it all too well, it's all fuzzy when I try to think about it-"

"Wilbur," Tommy's voice interrupts suddenly, "why aren't you _dead??"_

Phil winces at Tommy's bluntness, though the ghost doesn't seem to notice, or care. If anything, he perks up a bit, that wavering smile creeping back onto his lips. "Oh! That's a funny story, actually - so I know Wilbur is supposed to be dead and everything, but I'm not really sure if I'm him, you know?" He gives them a look as if he expects them to understand the complete and utter _nonsense_ he just rambled at them. "I'm more like, uh - Ghostbur, yeah, Ghostbur sounds right. So Wilbur, he's dead, and I'm - I'm here instead, I guess. I think." He rubs the back of his neck. "It's all a bit foggy, still, so I'm not sure. Does that sound right?"

Tommy shoots Phil an absolutely bewildered look.

Phil wishes he has an answer to give.

"Wilbur," he tries to coax gently, "how much do you-"

"Ghostbur," his not-quite-dead son cuts in, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I'm - I'm not Wilbur Soot, I'm just… I'm just Ghostbur."

"...Ghostbur," Phil amends, even though his heart feels like it's about to break in half. "How much do you, uh... how much do you remember, about what happened?"

'Ghostbur' purses his lips, glancing down at his blue-stained hands. "I..." A smile teases at his face, his lips as blue as the strange color on his hands. He doesn't meet either Phil or Tommy's eyes. "I remember Tommy and me in the van... I remember Fundy, back when he was little. Tubbo building things, and, uh... people cheering... sparring with Techno, when we were - when we were kids-"

His gaze shifts towards Phil. The smile on his face widens. "Oh! I remember you killing me."

Phil can barely breathe. "...You do?" he whispers, hands shaking.

"Yeah!" Ghostbur says brightly. "It's a good memory." His brow furrows again, and he drifts towards Phil, holding out his hands. "Oh, Phil, you look sad. Are you sad? Did I say something wrong again? Here, have some blue."

Phil's arms seem to move of their own accord, detached from the rest of him, like the arms of a marionette. He notices Tommy stiffen in the corner of his eye as he accepts Ghostbur's offering of blue; the strange material sticks to his hands, staining them. It has the consistency of ash, but a softer texture, warm to the touch. The faint smell of smoke wafts into Phil's nose as Ghostbur's fingers wrap around his, slightly passing through his skin, but making an effort to hold tight nevertheless.

"It's okay, Phil," Ghostbur murmurs. "I don't remember it really well, but I know Wilbur must've been really sad - you did a good thing, I think. Wilbur didn't have any blue to help with the bad memories, but I've got plenty of it, and you can have as much as you like."

In a twisted, horrible way, there's some merit to Ghostbur's words. Clinging to the powdery blue substance, feeling it stain his hands - the warmth of it, like the eerie warmth of Ghostbur's spectral touch, and the echo of his voice - it helps, a little bit. The ache in Phil's chest subsides slightly, bringing him just far enough away from the edge of that void inside him, so he doesn't feel like it's poised to swallow him whole. (Given time, he'll probably stumble back to it, and let it devour him. But for now, the pain subsides, just a bit.)

"...Thanks, Ghostbur," Phil manages after a moment.

Ghostbur smiles, then looks over at his little brother, frozen stiff at the fireplace. "Tommy! Did you want some blue?"

Eyes wide as dinner plates, Tommy shakes his head mutely. Ghostbur wilts, pulling away from Phil.

"I'm sorry, Tommy," he says, the regret palpable in his tone. "I don't remember exactly what Wilbur did, but... when I woke up, all I could think about was - was finding you, and Fundy, and Techno and Phil." He glances down at his hand again. "I'm not sure if I'm supposed to give you blue, or - or something else. I _know_ there's something I'm supposed to do, that's the whole thing with ghosts, isn't it? Unfinished business. So there's something I'm supposed to be doing here, but... I can't remember what it is."

As Ghostbur trails off, a lost expression on his face, the house goes hauntingly silent. Tommy's jaw is clenched so tight Phil can almost hear the hinge of bone cracking from all the way across the room. Phil's head swarms with too many thoughts to process at once; why _Fundy_ was the first person Ghostbur visited, why his hands are full of this strange blue substance that flakes away like ash from Phil's skin, why he is _here._ Phil bites down the urge to insist that ghosts simply _don't exist,_ that his son's return in this state must be a fucked up glitch of the server, tempting _hope_ from him when this place has only ever brought him pain.

One of these questions is a little easier to ask than the rest.

"Ghostbur," he ventures carefully, "why did you go to Fundy when you woke up?" He doesn't know much about the fox hybrid, other than the fact that he's young - a little older than Tommy and Tubbo - and he's done a good job of avoiding Phil and Tommy since the explosion. He seems to stick close to Eret and Niki, though Phil has noticed him keeping company with Tubbo and Quackity lately, too. There's a nagging sense in the back of his head that he _should_ know what Fundy's connection to his son is - _was -_ but he can't quite put his finger on it.

Across the room, Tommy's gaze darts to Phil. He notices it too late - the confusion morphing into shock, Tommy's mouth opening to speak as he lurches forward, before-

"Well - I kind of had to, y'know?" Ghostbur says, oblivious to Tommy's rising alarm and Phil's confusion. "I thought he'd be happier to see his old man, but..." Ghostbur shrugs, picking at the blue lodged under his fingernails. "I think he's still angry with me, for the things Wilbur did."

Not for the first time tonight, Phil feels like he's been kicked in the stomach.

"...what??" he whispers.

Tommy looks white as a sheet. "Fuck," he mutters, gaze snapping between an increasingly distraught Phil and a baffled Ghostbur. "You didn't - fuck, I thought you _knew."_

Phil collapses into his chair, head spinning. Ghostbur winces and shrinks back, the blue falling from his hands. "Oh, no," he creaks out with distress. "Oh, I - he - Wilbur never told you about Fundy??" He looks to Tommy with desperation. "Tommy, Tommy, explain it to him, I can't - I don't remember it-"

Tommy's lip twitches as if he's about to snap at Ghostbur, and it comes as a bit of a shock when he holds himself back. He grits his teeth and breathes in deep, eventually biting out a terse explanation. "Look, all I know is - well, Wilbur was here for a few years before I got here, and pretty early on after he arrived he met this fox kid, pretty young I guess. Probably about as old as I was when you found _me_. And I guess he adopted him or some shit. I don't know details, it was pretty tense when I showed up, and it just got worse from there - Fundy pretended to be on Schlatt's side after the election, trying to be a spy, but he didn't _tell_ anyone so Wilbur thought he just - just betrayed us."

Aether above, Phil has a _grandson,_ and no one thought to fucking _tell him._

He can't even find the energy to be mad at his boys for neglecting to inform him of that rather critical development. He certainly can't bring himself to be mad at his son's _ghost_ for not remembering what Wilbur failed to tell him. All those years of Wil being gone on Dream's server, and he never reached out for help, never thought to try and tell Phil about adopting a _son,_ a son he then brought into a _war-_

He hands clench into fists. Fundy is barely an adult, and he was dragged into this war just like Tommy and Tubbo were, by Wilbur, by Dream, by the fury of men too far gone to see what was worth protecting anymore.

And what about Phil? He finished their war for them, or at least he tried to - what is he protecting now? This hollow city is built on a grave, and the admin who reigns above this world could rip it apart all over again, if he felt the inclination. There's nothing stopping him from ripping apart the people within it, he's _already done it,_ he ripped something out of Wilbur Soot and let the ache of that loss consume him. He could do it again, and again, and again-

_'I'm looking for Technoblade.'_

Phil grits his teeth. He's heard the stories of the Festival. Heard how easily Schlatt got into Techno's head, how he drove him to shoot fireworks into the crowd, scarring Tubbo and Tommy in their own ways.

Schlatt wasn't an admin. Schlatt wasn't _Dream._

(It's been weeks, and Phil's communicator is still silent, his messages ignored without reply.)

"Phil...?"

He looks up at his son, or what's left of him. Remorse is painted on Ghostbur's face. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Phil lets out a ragged sigh. "Me too, mate. Me too."

Tommy scoffs.

Phil raises an eyebrow in his youngest son's direction. "Tommy?" he asks gently, the way he used to do when the boys were young and still getting used to each other. "You've been really quiet. Did you want to say something to Ghostbur?"

Something dark flashes across Tommy's eyes. He stands slowly from the hearth, stalking across the room to Ghostbur with a glare on his face. Ghostbur shrinks away, his form flickering like it did back when he was out in the rain. Phil stands from his chair sharply, poised to intervene, but he feels frozen. A tension settles over the room as Tommy halts in front of his brother's ghost, nostrils flared and jaw clenched as tightly as his fists.

"You really don't remember everything else, Wilbur?" he says lowly. "The war? Pogtopia? What you did to L'Manberg? To _us??"_

Ghostbur flinches. "Tommy," he whispers, "I'm not - I'm not Wilbur. I don't remember, I'm... I'm sorry."

Tommy scoffs again, a raw and bitter sound. "Yeah, I guess you aren't," he mutters. "Wilbur wouldn't have fucking apologized for shit."

The tension holds, and doesn't break. Neither Ghostbur nor Tommy give any indication of wanting to speak further - Ghostbur floats, barely visible, while Tommy stands there just trying to _breathe -_ so Phil is the one who has to break it for them. It's a situation of vague familiarity; there have been arguments like this before, he's certain of it. He just can't quite remember all of them through the static. And none have been quite like _this._

"I think," he says, "that's enough for tonight. Tommy, you need sleep." Tommy opens his mouth to argue, but Phil holds up a stern hand. "You've been working so hard these last few days, you're going to burn yourself out. Just... try and get some sleep, okay? We can talk about this more in the morning." There is a _lot_ they need to talk about in the morning, and Ghostbur - Ghostbur isn't even _half_ of it.

Tommy's lip twitches. "Not if ghost boy is sticking around. I don't want him lookin' at me in my sleep, that's creepy as shit."

"That's okay," Ghostbur murmurs quietly. "I can leave, the rain's stopped. I won't melt anymore now."

"Ghostbur-" Phil tries to protest, terrified of his son leaving again, but Ghostbur just shakes his head.

"Don't worry about me, Phil," he says, flashing another fragile grin. "I haven't gotten a chance to look around L'Manberg much, I only woke up a few hours ago - it'd be nice to see what everyone's done. And it's not like anything can hurt me now, except for the rain, so I'll be okay." He drifts over to Phil, their shoulders brushing together, a tingle of pins and needles spreading across Phil's skin at the contact. "Maybe I'll see Techno! He'd probably be happy to see me, yeah?"

It takes all of Phil's composure to muster a smile for his dead son.

"Yeah, mate," he whispers. "I bet he'd be real happy."

None of them say goodbye when Ghostbur leaves, floating out through the balcony and down to the wooden platforms. His figure glows faintly in the night, a dull blue no brighter than the pinprick stars above. Phil wants so badly to chase after him, to make him stay close so he can't wander off again, into a forest or a ravine or some dark place where he'll get lost again, somewhere Phil can't find him.

But chasing after ghosts isn't something he can do. Not when his living sons still need him.

"Well," Tommy croaks from behind him. "That was weird as shit."

Phil gives him a brittle smile, wrenching himself away from the balcony as Ghostbur disappears from view. "...Yeah, that's one word for it."

Tommy drags his hands through his hair, laughing shakily. "I can't fucking - I can't fucking believe this shit. What the fuck is he _doing_ here? He's - he's supposed to be _dead,_ it's supposed to be _over,_ and he-" The laugh breaks off, sounding almost like a sob. "He doesn't even _remember."_

(A common refrain, these days.)

Phil heaps another two logs on the fire, for good measure; Tommy stands motionless as he does, only breaking from his stupor when Phil gently runs his hands through Tommy's untrimmed blond hair. Tommy leans heavily into the gesture, for a brief moment, until he shakes himself and brushes off the contact. Phil tries not to take it personally; his youngest has been forced to shoulder the weight of a nation for far too long, forced to fill the shoes of a grown man while his brothers tear each other apart.

Phil has to fix this. Somehow.

"Get some sleep, Tommy," he urges, nudging his son towards the bed.

"Yeah, yeah," Tommy mutters under his breath. "You too, old man."

The bickering feels superficial, performative. A hollow reflection of past family dinners, early mornings in gardens, long nights climbing the cliffs around the house where Phil raised his boys in a faraway server. It lacks Wilbur's dry wit, Techno's deadpan monotone. Still, it's more than Phil has gotten from Tommy since he broke into this server - it's something _more_ than stilted public conversation and cagey whispers in the dark. A reminder of what used to be, and a promise that all might not quite be lost.

So he takes it in stride, despite the ache in his chest. He sinks back into his chair and listens to Tommy breathe, eventually hearing quiet snores.

(He only occasionally hears static in his ears.) 

Phil cannot shake the feeling that he will hear another knock on the door, or the scrape of a diamond axe against the windowpane. It keeps him awake the rest of the night, alone with his own thoughts and a dull pain between his shoulder blades. One hand remains on his sword, the other on his communicator. His gaze drifts around the room, taking inventory of his supplies; he marks off a mental checklist of what he will need, and agonizes quietly over how he's going to tell Tommy.

In the end, the night passes quietly.

Dawn breaks, and it's on to a new day.

* * *

"Tommy," Phil says in the morning, after a hastily cobbled-together breakfast of only slightly burnt omelets, "I need to tell you something."

 _Fuck_. Tommy braces reflexively, stomach twisting with dread at Phil's tone of voice - not dissimilar to Wilbur's tone when he rambled about them being the 'bad guys', or Techno's voice when he monologued about universal languages and violence or some other stupid shit in the pit. It's a heavy, somber tone, and he's not used to hearing it from _Phil,_ who's always been so unwaveringly upbeat and sarcastic even in his most dire moments. Seeing this serious side of his father as of late is - strange. Uncomfortable.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense, big man," Tommy quips, fighting to quell the stirrings of anxiety in his chest.

Phil takes in a deep breath. He doesn't waste time with a rambling explanation or dramatic emphasis. He speaks plainly, and each word cuts deeper than the next.

"I'm going to look for Techno," he says, "and I want you to stay here."

At this point, Tommy really shouldn't be surprised anymore. First Techno, then Wilbur, now Phil - he could argue against it, but what would be the point? There's a bag neatly packed sitting by the door, extra wood piled up by the fireplace. Phil has clearly already made up his mind. (Picking favorites, _again.)_

So, Tommy shrugs. "Okay."

Phil blinks in surprise. "...Okay?" he echoes, as if he's misheard Tommy.

"Yeah. Okay." Tommy shakes his head. "What else do you want me to say, Phil?"

"I... just thought you might want to see him, too." (He expected an argument. Usually Tommy would be happy to give him one, but he's just so fucking tired.)

"He shot Tubbo," Tommy snaps, harsher than he means to. "He spawned _withers_ in L'Manberg. Why would I want to see him?"

Phil opens his mouth, then clamps it shut. Tommy feels a flicker of triumph, having defeated the classic Phil spiel about them being brothers and family. He doesn't want to hear it right now, or ever again, probably. He's got so much shit in his brain right now - so much static, so much _noise -_ the last thing he needs is to be worrying about his dickhead brothers. It's bad enough the ghost of one of them has decided to come back and haunt him. Leaving New L'Manberg to go on a road trip with Phil to find the brother who told him to _die_ is at rock bottom on the list of things he wants to deal with at the moment.

"Well," Phil says quietly, clearing his throat, "I'm not sure how well the communicators work out in the wilderness, but if something happens back here and you need me, send a message and I'll come back. I don't know how long it'll take to find him, so I could... be gone a while." He can hear something fragile in Phil's voice, something on the verge of breaking down. He doesn't look his father in the eye. "You should be good here until I get back, yeah? You've got Tubbo and Niki and everyone else."

"Yeah," Tommy mutters, hearing the unspoken implication of _Techno doesn't have anybody._

Well, who's fault is _that,_ huh? Techno's the one who ran away, leaving L'Manberg to burn, driving everyone to declare him a fucking _war criminal._ He turned his back on his brothers, so why should Tommy care what happens to him? Why should he care that Phil is choosing him, again, over everyone and everything else?

He almost shoves Phil's hand away when it comes down to rest on his shoulder.

"Once I've found him," Phil says under his breath, "once I'm sure he's somewhere safe, I'll come back and get you. We'll sort everything out together, okay? Just keep your head down until then."

Tommy nods mutely. There's another unspoken warning there, in the way Phil hesitates to let go, in the way he lingers at the door, waiting for Tommy to give him some kind of response, some indication that he _understands._ As if Tommy didn't live in this server for months, most of that time living under threat of war and exile, wondering if the next battle was going to be his last. Tommy understands the danger of stepping out of line better than anyone else on this fucking server. 

He's also running out of reasons to care anymore.

"Be safe, Tommy," Phil says, a supportive smile on his lips as he steps out the door. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Tommy almost snarks back with a bitter 'yeah, right'.

He only just barely manages to bite his tongue. Part of him wants to shout at Phil to fuck off and not even pretend he's planning to come back; part of him wants to beg him to stay, Tommy needs answers still and Phil is the only person he trusts who has some vague inkling of an idea on how to get them. It's a silent struggle inside himself, neither side emerging the victor. He's just locked in a stalemate in his own head, watching Phil leave into the morning sun, sneaking off down the path toward the northbound river.

Tommy stands on the doorstep watching Phil leave, until well after he's gone.

(The light's playing tricks on him. He almost thinks he sees the hazy silhouette of a ghost, trailing after Phil at a distance. Abandoning Tommy again.)

He wipes the back of his hand over his eyes, and finds they're still dry.

Heaving a brittle sigh, Tommy departs Phil's house, heading off to go find Tubbo or Fundy or _anyone._ His hopes aren't high for spending time with Tubbo; these days, Tommy seems to be Vice President of New L'Manberg in name only. Quackity and Fundy are better suited as advisors, able to focus on boring shit like paperwork and schedules, while Tommy just helps clear rubble and build things most people accuse of being ugly. It's kept him busy so far, but reconstruction is nearly complete now. What's he supposed to do after it's done?

(Everything is changing around him, and yet it feels like nothing's changed at all.)

Well, he'll manage somehow. He doesn't need Techno or Ghostbur or Phil to do that. He can get answers on his own.

It's just a matter of figuring out where the hell he's supposed to start looking.

* * *

(Code breaks down. Blood remembers.)

(Secrets never stay buried forever.)

One admin alone cannot patch every crack in a server's code. Sometimes, things slip through. Mobs stronger than they should be, items that aren't meant to exist. People who aren't supposed to be allowed inside sometimes break in, and find themselves trapped with nowhere to go. Odd little things slip through, here and there; little glitches in the code, fragmented and missing pieces. Sometimes they pull themselves together, and resurface, awake after so long asleep.

Sometimes admins just don't notice in time.

No one is looking when the purple static splits the air above the old spawn point, the one that hasn't been used in months since the server's entry codes were locked. A couple foxes in the spruce trees might notice, scattering quickly as the static coalesces, scratching like a broken record. With a dull _pop,_ darkness morphs through space, a tangle of warped code fighting for a freedom it hasn't tasted in a long, long time. 

It collapses amidst the ruins of the old wall, purple static fading.

Slowly, a pair of eyes open. One red, one green.

It - _he -_ reaches out, squinting into unfamiliar sunlight. He tries to remember, and-

There's a hiss of static in his head, leaving room for the faint whisper of a single name, and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry Phil. I'm sure Tommy will be fine without you there.


	4. dissonance waiting to be pulled into tune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories piece themselves together. A long-buried secret is stumbled upon by the person least capable of doing something productive with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Title from "Mercury" by Sleeping At Last)

His name is Ranboo.

This much he knows for sure.

He takes careful inventory of himself and his immediate vicinity when he wakes, absorbing details into that vast void that is his memory. The air is warm, and smells of pine; the rough stone and wood wall he woke up slumped against is coated in moss that crumbles at the touch. He has two hands, slim-fingered with short claws at the tips. His legs are long and gangly, and he has trouble walking at first. His face is smooth and cool to the touch, and he doesn't seem to have a nose or a mouth or ears.

(He breathes just fine, though, after the first few minutes of panic.)

Settling down in the shade - the sun is too bright, too blinding, and terribly unfamiliar - he picks through the pockets of the dark suit he appears to be wearing. He retrieves a handful of random objects, none of them holding any particular meaning for him, at least none he can recall. The smooth, glossy pearl sends pins and needles through his skin as he rolls it between his palms experimentally. It feels delicate, and he tucks it back into his pocket for safekeeping before examining the rest of the items spread out on the podzol before him.

A few jagged shards of obsidian, sharp on the edges. (Pieces of a greater whole, perhaps.)

A tuft of blonde hair that looks like it might've been torn from someone's head. (Touching it makes his skin crawl.)

A piece of something gold, with a ruby inlaid into it. (He thinks it might be from a crown.)

And lastly, a small black journal with worn edges, the words **_DO NOT READ_** written on the cover.

Ranboo raises a curious eyebrow, turning the book over carefully. There's nothing else written on the spine or the back, but the weight of the book feels oddly familiar in his hands. His fingers twitch, as if anxious for a pen to write with. Muscle memory kicking in, he guesses, though he doesn't exactly have a good frame of reference for how amnesia is supposed to affect someone. The warning on the cover seems quite clear, and he considers respecting it, but-

Books tend to have things written inside them, and the book was in his pocket. He can't tell if the words on the cover are his handwriting or not - they look hastily scrawled - but there's a chance the book might have useful information, regardless of its true ownership. Curiosity swells in his chest as he sits awkwardly cross-legged in the shade of a towering spruce tree and thumbs the book open, careful not to damage its delicate pages.

The contents of the book are... not quite what he expected. He didn't really expect much of anything, honestly, and yet somehow he still feels caught off guard.

The writing on the first page is initially incomprehensible, making his head hurt just _looking_ at it. The jagged squiggles overlap each other, blurring together on the page, seemingly _moving_ of their own accord. A dull ache throbs in his temples as he squints at the page, desperately scouring the jumbled text for something comprehensible; miraculously, after a minute or so, the nonsensical scribbles finally rearrange themselves into something legible.

Exhaling a sigh of relief, Ranboo quickly scans through the short list written in the book.

  * _Your name is Ranboo._



He smiles, or at least his face feels like it does. Good to know he remembered _something_ correctly, at least.

  * _It's okay if you don't remember. It'll be a long time before you can read this, probably. No one else will remember, either. If there's anyone left._



Ranboo's shoulder slump. If that's supposed to be reassuring, he doesn't feel particularly reassured. He wracks his brain, trying to figure out who could've written this. Did he write it to himself? Or was it someone else? The book is leaving him with more questions than answers, and he can't help but feel a little frustrated at it.

He keeps reading, and it doesn't get better.

  * _It's not your fault._



His heartbeat quickens. He shivers, skin crawling, despite the warmth in the air.

  * _Don't trust Dream._



There's nothing else written after that. The book gives no further information about this Dream person, no context for why he can't be trusted. Ranboo flips through a few more pages, hoping to find more, but there's nothing. Turning back to the first page, his gaze lingers on that final line, a cold feeling of dread twisting in his gut.

How long has it been since... whatever happened to him?

(The book says it's not his fault. Does that mean it's Dream's fault? Did Dream do this?)

He clutches the book to his chest, pulling his knees up and resting his head atop them. Static crackles in his ears as he closes his eyes and tries to _think,_ tries to remember more than a vast void stretching endlessly around him. He can't remember if the void was warm or cold - he just remembers floating, unable to move, a purple distortion surrounding him. Here and there, pinprick flickers of light - and always, _always_ static.

It feels like he was there forever.

(Maybe he was.)

Hands trembling, Ranboo clutches the book tighter and leans back against the trunk of the spruce tree, tilting his head up to squint at the canopy. Light filters through the branches, the breeze knocking pine needles down. It's warm, here, and bright; the polar opposite of the void. He breathes in the smell of the forest - the mulch underneath him, the sticky sap of the bark, the rich smell of pine. In the distance he thinks he smells smoke. So many smells all at once, almost overpowering. He tries to find familiarity in _any_ of them, and yet they all feel foreign and strange.

Is this place home?

(Is _any_ place home?)

He squeezes his eyes shut.

He can't remember.

* * *

Tommy storms through the forest alone, cursing Quackity and Fundy's names under his breath. Is it really so much of him to ask that he gets a little time to spend with Tubbo, just the two of them? No presidential cabinet hawking over their shoulders, insisting they need to deal with paperwork or new regulations or some other annoying bullshit that makes Tommy's head hurt just _thinking_ about it? Tubbo is all he has left now, hasn't he earned the right to be just a little clingy?

The spruce trees fade to a blur around him as he stalks away from New L'Manberg. He can't get Quackity's snide, condescending tone out of his head. Can't stop seeing Fundy's smug little smirk. Can't stop thinking about Tubbo's indifference, how he shrank away and didn't say _anything._

_'Tubbo has more important things to deal with right now. Stop being selfish, Tommy.'_

There's a raw ache in his throat, largely due to the litany of loud swears he screamed at the presidential cabinet before he stormed off. He gave up everything - _every single thing -_ and they have the audacity to call him _selfish??_ His discs, his brothers, his father, his - his _memories -_ Pogtopia, L'Manberg - they're all gone, and now the only person he was sure he could rely on, the one person he thought might _understand,_ barely cares enough to raise his voice in Tommy's defense.

(He knows he can't stay mad at Tubbo forever. But for now, he lets the anger simmer in his chest, ready to boil over.)

Maybe it's dangerous to be outside of New L'Manberg alone, especially right now, but Tommy can't bring himself to care. He vaguely recognizes the trees around him as the trees of the old server spawn point, long since abandoned and forgotten - no one comes here anymore. Tommy idly wonders if anyone would care if he burned it down. (He wonders if that's Wilbur talking, another ghost lodged inside his head.)

If nothing else, the old spawn point should be as good a place as any to be alone for a while.

So, it comes as a bit of a shock when Tommy discovers that someone is _already there._

He almost walks right past them. They sit motionless, curled up at the base of a large spruce tree, their form almost perfectly obscured by the shadows. When Tommy spots them in the corner of his eye, he halts abruptly in place, heart skipping a beat. His hand instinctively tightens around the handle of his sword, alarm bells sounding off in his head. The figure doesn't acknowledge him as he takes his first good look, and his blood runs cold.

The black suit they're wearing is so reminiscent of Schlatt that Tommy fully expects to see a pair of horns curling from the figure's head. Instead, their face is an alarmingly featureless mask of black and white, the colors mottled across the center. Their disheveled short-cropped hair - similarly split-toned - has collected a mess of pine needles. They're a bit of a freak, if Tommy's being perfectly honest, but more importantly, he's never seen this person before in his fucking life.

He's pretty sure _nobody_ on Dream's server has.

Are they a mob? Some kind of weird new illager? Surely they can't be a real _person,_ people don't just _appear_ on Dream's server - Phil was an exception, he had a _reason_ to be here, but this figure just sitting quietly under a tree - they're an enigma.

Tommy, naturally, approaches this enigma with all the tact and grace of a creeper explosion.

"Hey!" he calls out loudly, twigs snapping under his feet as he jogs over to the seemingly asleep stranger. "Hey, you! What're you doing here?"

The figure jolts, head snapping down in Tommy's direction. Tommy lurches to a halt, shocked stiff, as the lower half of the person's - creature's?? - face splits apart into a mass of jagged teeth, a horrible, distorted screech erupting from their jaws.

Their eyes meet, blue against red and green, and pain sears through Tommy's skull.

* * *

When the blonde boy comes running at him out of the woods, shouting loudly, the shriek that leaves Ranboo's mouth catches even _himself_ off guard. The boy skids to a halt, seemingly as startled by the noise as Ranboo is, his eyes going wide. Ranboo makes the mistake of meeting the boy's alarmed gaze, and the whole world splits apart.

Like a mirror shattering, jagged fractures spiderweb across Ranboo's vision, centered on the boy. The boy recoils with a screech, dropping his sword and grabbing the sides of his head as sounds and images spill through the fractures, a different set framed in each splinter of space and time. Ranboo shrinks back against the tree trunk as an overwhelming tide of unfamiliar imagery surges through his head, distorted by that same static that blots out his own memories. The boy falls to his knees as the images cascade, and Ranboo wonders if he can see them, too.

He sees fragments of a warzone, a city scorched by fire.

He sees a ravine, cold and dark. Hears a man's raspy voice, singing a song whose words Ranboo can't make out.

(Most memories spill past him, too fast to see. But some linger, hazy and blurred.)

He sees a house below a cliff, four people standing on the precipice above, looking up at the sky. One nudges another over the edge, and they laugh.

He sees a crackling fireplace, those same four people sitting around it. The same boy in front of him, but so much younger, is curled up in the lap of a man with a green hat and greener eyes. Two older boys are sitting nearby, one with startling pink hair sitting cross-legged in front of the other, whose hands are busy tying that hair into braids. The older boys don't look too much alike, but somehow Ranboo _knows_ they're twins. 

And all of them-

All of them have _wings._

With a gasp, Ranboo wrenches his gaze away from the boy, screwing his eyes shut. With a _snap_ the memories dissolve, fading out of clarity, though not quite far enough that he can forget them in their entirety. His heart pounds in his chest as he dares to glance back at the boy, careful not to make direct eye contact again. The boy is on his hands and knees, trembling, sucking in rapid, uneven breaths.

When his head shoots up again, Ranboo ducks to avoid his gaze.

"What the fuck-" the boy squawks. "What the _fuck_ did you just do to me??"

Panic floods Ranboo's chest. He's sure he has but _moments_ until the boy picks up the sword again.

Awkwardly he stumbles to his feet, and on unsteady legs, he runs.

* * *

Tommy doesn't have time to process the _whirlwind_ of discordant memories that just slammed through his head. The screechy bastard with the weird eyes is _running away -_ Aether above, he's _freakishly_ tall - and the only thing Tommy can think to do is chase after him. The stranger seems a bit uncoordinated as they bolt away deeper into the forest, giving Tommy a chance to catch up. His ears ring from the sound of the stranger's screech, and he stumbles more than once, but he closes the distance between them quickly.

"Hey, wait!" he shouts after the stranger. " _Wait,_ dammit!"

The stranger veers left, crashing through the underbrush. A moment later they drop out of view, and Tommy hears a loud splash, and another scream, one that rapidly tapers into a pained wail. Tommy bursts through the bushes in pursuit, hissing as the brambles snag on his legs, and nearly goes somersaulting down the embankment of a stream. He only just barely manages to catch himself before he falls in; the stranger, he realizes, wasn't quite so lucky.

The stream isn't particularly deep, but the stranger thrashes in it like they're drowning. Tommy slides down the muddy bank as they cry out in pain, a strange purple haze flickering at the edges of their silhouette. Gritting his teeth, Tommy wades out into the stream after them, nearly getting smacked in the side of the head by a flailing arm as he grabs the obnoxiously tall figure around the waist and drags them out of the water. Pulling them around the bend of the stream to a flat stretch of sand, he drops them unceremoniously and braces his hands on his knees, chest tight as he catches his breath.

"Fucking dickhead," he grumbles, "these are my only good shoes, they're gonna be wet for _weeks_ now."

He regrets his choice of words as soon as the stranger flinches and curls up on their side, hiding their head. Mentally kicking himself, he quickly amends, "Uh - worth it, though. Don't get to be all heroic and shit too much lately. Shame no women were around to see it." The stranger doesn't respond, though Tommy catches a glimpse of a green eye peeking out from behind a hand at him. Their silence makes his stomach churn.

"So, uh," he begins uncertainly, sitting down on the sand and giving the stranger a curious once-over, "sorry about chasing you into the stream. Didn't think you'd just up and run like that. Guess I maybe shouldn't have yelled, but, um - whatever you did kinda freaked me out a bit." He forces a laugh. "Guess that makes two of us, though."

The stranger blinks. Tommy grimaces.

"Okay. Shit. Um." He drags his hand through his hair. "Let's - let's just start over, okay? Hi, I'm Tommy. Who're you?"

Slowly, the stranger sits up, keeping their arms and legs tucked close to their body. The purple haze has faded, but the seam in their face where those horrifying jaws split open remains, looking a bit more like a normal mouth now - if a bit weird, on account of the lack of a nose and lips. The mouth cracks open and closed again a few times, vague sounds slipping out that sound like a static-laced hiss.

After the first few tries, a voice eventually emerges, a lot deeper-sounding than Tommy expected - almost as deep as Eret's voice, or Techno's.

"...Ranboo."

Well, that's a promising start. "Hello, Ranboo," Tommy says, doing his best to sound as civil and un-Tommy-like as possible. "So, uh... what brings you to the server?"

Ranboo shrinks into himself. "I don't... I don't know," he murmurs.

Something cold and bitter twists in Tommy's gut. His mouth goes dry, and he tries _so_ hard not to think about what he saw when he made eye contact with Ranboo, when the static screamed and _pain_ ripped through his skull. The memories are pristine now, unmarred by static and fog, and he knows, he _knows_ that Ranboo did something, but looking at the man - another hybrid, he realizes, it's painfully obvious just from his appearance alone - he isn't sure _Ranboo_ even understands what he did.

"Well, what _do_ you know?"

Watching Ranboo move is like watching a marionette with only half its strings. It's like he's only half aware of his own limbs, at once moving too slow and too fast, his spindly fingers fumbling as they pull a slightly damp book out from an inner pocket of his blazer. Tommy raises his eyebrow at the title of the book, but refrains from commenting for the time being as Ranboo thumbs the book open to the first page.

"I woke up here earlier today, and I knew my name," Ranboo explains. "That's... that's it. But apparently that's okay. The book says I was gone for a long time, so I guess it's not really that surprising that I don't remember anything else."

Tommy's not sure if it's a good thing that he's barely even phased by the fact that Ranboo is relying on a creepy looking book in order to explain what he does and doesn't know. Stranger things have happened on this server. "What else does it say?" he asks, doing his best to mimic the way Phil talks when he's trying to be supportive. It only works about half the time, but it feels better than doing nothing.

Ranboo's voice becomes very quiet. "...The book says it's not my fault."

Tommy's fingers curl into the sand. Those words keep popping up a lot lately. Nothing ever seems to be _anyone's_ fault. People either take no blame at all, or too much at once, and nobody is pointing fingers in the right direction. Some of them _have_ to know, Tommy's seen the way they tense up when their admin's name is mentioned. He's seen how Eret's jaw clenches, seen how Sapnap spends more time with Karl and Quackity than with the people who are supposed to be his best friends. But none of them are reckless enough to say it out loud.

(Reckless is one of Tommy Innit's many middle names.)

"Well, the book's probably right," Tommy quips, cracking a bittersweet grin. "Does it say it anything else?"

If Ranboo could shrink any further into himself, he'd probably implode. It's a long time before he speaks again, and when he does, his voice comes out a whisper, as if he's scared of each word that leaves his lips.

"...Do you know Dream?"

Tommy doesn't even try to hold back a scowl. "Yeah, I do," he mutters, not even remotely caring if the admin is eavesdropping. "He's a fucking _bastard."_

It's impossible to miss the hesitant relief in Ranboo's body language. His shoulders relax slightly, as does his death grip on that strange little book. "...Okay," he exhales. "The last thing the book says is - is that I shouldn't trust Dream."

A low, snorting laugh leaves Tommy's throat before he can stop himself. "Wow. Fucking _wow."_ Throwing his hands into the air, Tommy leans back and flops onto the sand, grinding his palms into his face. "Congratulations, Ranboo! You've been on this server a day and you remember fuck all about yourself, and you already know better what to think about Dream than pretty much everyone else here."

Ranboo cocks his head to the side. "Uh... thanks? I think?" He rubs the back of his head. "I take it the book is right, then."

Tommy rolls back upright, dusting sand from his hair. "Oh, yeah, the book is _definitely_ right. He's a shitty little bitch boy who deserves to get locked up in prison, but the problem is, he's kind of the server admin, so we're a bit, uh, stuck with him."

The edge of Ranboo's mouth quirks up into a faint smirk. "...Foul green beast," he murmurs under his breath. Crossing his legs, he sets his book in his lap, hand resting protectively over the cover. A moment of silence stretches between him and Tommy, quickly becoming tense, an unspoken question hanging between them.

After a moment, Ranboo lets out a sigh. "...So, uh. I'm guessing that you saw something, too. When I looked you in the eyes."

The massive dam holding back the torrent of questions and uncertainties that are built up in Tommy's head doesn't quite _break_ when Ranboo asks this, but it certainly cracks. It takes him a few seconds to find his voice; his mouth has gone dry again. "Yeah, I did. I guess there's no point in asking you what the fuck happened there?"

Ranboo shakes his head. "I wish I knew. Honestly, I don't - I have no idea why that happened." He keeps his head carefully lowered. "I think it only happens if I look at you directly."

"Guess it's not too surprising," Tommy says. "I mean - you're an enderman hybrid, aren't you? They're a bit stingy on the whole eye contact thing."

Ranboo straightens up in shock. "I - is that what I am?"

 _Shit._ Of course he wouldn't _know._ Tommy stumbles over his words, struggling for an explanation that he doesn't actually have. "Well, it just makes the most sense. You don't like water, you get weird with eye contact, you kinda look like a jumbled up enderman. I'm not really sure, I've never met an enderman hybrid. I don't think anyone on this server has." He bites his tongue, feeling a sickened twist in his gut as he realizes there's probably a _reason_ nobody's ever seen an enderman hybrid. Dream went out of his way to ban flight on his server, who's to say what he would do to a hybrid who might be able to _teleport?_

(Clearly, whatever he did fucked up Ranboo even worse than Tommy and his brothers.)

"So... could you not remember what you saw? Before I looked at you?" Ranboo asks.

Tommy grits his teeth. "...No," he confesses bitterly. "I couldn't. I think - I think Dream fucked with my code. Made it so I can't remember certain things." He gives Ranboo a careful, sympathetic look. "And I... I think he might've done the same to you."

Ranboo goes still, and doesn't say anything, and Tommy wants to stab something.

Ranboo seems... nice. Skittish and awkward and a little weird, but nice. Why does this always keep happening to people who almost certainly _do not_ deserve it? The memories are still so hazy, but Tommy can remember pieces of his brothers, back when they were a _family._ Wilbur with his guitar, sitting out on the dock, singing to the fish. Techno in his potato field, humming to himself. And that memory Ranboo somehow brought out of the fog-

His brothers were _good people,_ before they destroyed themselves in their fury. Before they turned Tommy into a soldier fighting a losing war, before they drove Phil to murder his own son.

It's all Dream's fault. It's _always_ been Dream's fault, and Tommy is _so_ fucking sick of sitting around, pretending he doesn't _see_ it.

Nobody else cares. But finally, he's found someone who maybe, just _maybe,_ might understand how he feels.

"Hey, Ranboo," he asks, "how do you feel about revenge?"

* * *

There's a violent glimmer in Tommy's eyes that would be frightening, if it weren't for the sheer _desperation_ Ranboo can hear in Tommy's tone.

It's a good question. How _does_ he feel about revenge? Tommy doesn't strike him as a particularly malevolent person, just someone who's _deeply_ hurting. Ranboo closes his eyes briefly, and the flicker of memories skate across his eyelids - the house, the cliff, those _wings,_ suspiciously absent from the shoulders of the older Tommy who sits before him now. He may not know what's happened to the family he glimpsed in that memory, but he can tell that _something_ went horribly, horribly wrong.

Tommy is hurting and broken, Ranboo is - _empty,_ and broken - and somehow, he _knows_ it's Dream's fault.

A little revenge is probably the _least_ Dream deserves.

"...What kind of revenge?" Ranboo asks, still a little wary, though there's a nagging feeling in his brain, sharp like brambles, that sympathizes a little too strongly with the anger in Tommy's eyes.

Tommy's grin widens. Ranboo wonders if he's smiling so he won't cry. "Look, big man, all I'm saying is - Dream's hurt my family a lot, and I'm pretty sure he's fucked you up, too. It's about time someone gave him a little payback, I think. He doesn't stick around New L'Manberg much, but we could vandalize his friend's house or some shit. You in?"

Static swarms Ranboo's ears, momentarily, before it ebbs.

He can't remember anything, and Dream-

Dream is the reason why. He has absolutely no proof of this, no validation of the book's warning except the words of a clearly damaged teenage boy, but for now, that's enough.

He thinks of the borrowed memory, the warmth and the _wings,_ the smiling faces that Tommy himself had probably forgotten. Thinks of the void inside him that Tommy has helped make a little less empty, in just the few minutes they've known each other.

"Yeah," he says, "I'm in."

* * *

Compared to blowing up L'Manberg, setting fire to a single house takes no effort at all. It's _laughably_ easy to click a flint and steel together in the dead of night, when Tommy knows George is elsewhere on the server. And yet, Tommy doesn't find himself laughing when he sets George's house ablaze. He clamps his mouth tightly shut, fearful that if a sound should escape, it'll come out a scream.

Ranboo watches in silence. Tommy wonders if he feels the same.

(They may hold the flint and steel, but this is _Dream's_ fault. George should've picked better friends.)

"Tommy," Ranboo eventually says, voice barely audible beyond the growing roar of the fire and the ringing static. "We should go."

He knows Ranboo is right, but Tommy doesn't turn away just yet. The smoke spirals into the night sky; someone is bound to see it soon, and come investigate. They'll probably douse the flames, if the oncoming rain Tommy's smells doesn't do it first. The damage won't be so bad that it can't be rebuilt, but George will probably go whine to Dream for help anyway.

(Dream will _know.)_

It barely counts as revenge, but it's all Tommy has, and right now, whatever comes next - this is worth it. He can only imagine Phil's disappointment, but it's _worth it,_ because as the flames consume George's house, their heat scathing against his cheek-

All Tommy can think is, _his brothers would've been so fucking proud of him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ranboo soup for the soul boooiiiiis


	5. until this pendulum finds equilibrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno has been alone before, many, many times. 
> 
> (This time feels different, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from "Sorrow" by Sleeping At Last.)

**_[Several weeks earlier.]_ **

The voices scream in Techno's head as he runs.

**_BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD_ **

_Phil???_

**_KILL THEM_ ** **_BURN THEM_ ** **_BURN_ ** **_BURN BURN_ **

_Wilbur save Wilbur save Wilbur save him save him save him_

_**KILL THESEUS** _

_SAVE TOMMY_

He's used to the voices being discordant, screaming against each other in a bid for his attention. The dissonance between them has never been as extreme as this; it feels like a physical war within his head, a widening crack threatening to split him open. The cries of the voices drown out the thunderclaps, the distant detonations of wither skulls. He almost forgets the outside world even exists at all, until a stray lightning bolt knocks him from the sky.

Mercifully, the voices go quiet for a moment as he plummets back into the river. His ears ring, both from the jolt of electricity and the harsh impact against the water, his armor simultaneously the one thing that saved him, and now the thing dragging him down into the depths. Pushing off frantically from the silt bed of the river, he follows the bubbles upwards, his skin aching and crawling where the lightning scorched it raw. With a gasp he breaks the surface, and the voices cheer a cacophony of _TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES._

Aether above, sometimes he wishes they were wrong.

The leather straps holding his netherite armor together are frayed, singed by the lightning. Gritting his teeth, Techno wrestles his armor off his body, shoving it back into the river. The purple glimmer of the enchantments shines through the water as they sink; _weeks_ worth of tireless mining and forging are surrendered to the river, just so Techno can run away a little bit faster. In its absence, he's hardly a Blood God; just a man shivering in the storm, hair and clothes soaked through, nerves on fire from the lightning strike. 

Oh, how the people of L'Manberg would laugh if they could see him now.

* * *

No one chases after him in the first few days. Techno makes use of his head start as much as physically possible, wearing out his trident until it's near to breaking, following the river until it ceases to flow. From there, he marches on foot, through deep forests and across fields and around ravines that have probably never been explored by the denizens of Dream's server. He has few resources to his name; his trident, his sword, his axe. All of the potions remaining in his rucksack shattered when the lightning hit him, viscous fluids spilling out and contaminating most of his rations. He's left with only a few potatoes and precious golden apples, a half-broken flint and steel, and a communicator he refuses to read.

It's a far cry from the rich resources of his vault, or the scattered materials he left behind in Pogtopia, but he makes do. He's done more with less in the past; he's well suited to life on his own, more than capable of self-sufficiency. More than once, he considers throwing away the communicator and cutting ties for good, but something stays his hand each time the temptation rises.

(He tries not to acknowledge the way the voices _cheer_ with relief when he hides the communicator in his rucksack again.)

Running tirelessly for days on end without giving himself pause to properly rest isn't the wisest decision Techno's ever made, but he needs to put as much distance between himself and L'Manberg as he can. (It's hard to say exactly what he's running from. The voices have mixed opinions on the matter.) In an ideal world, he'd leave the server entirely, but he's come to realize that breaking _out_ of Dream's server is a lot more difficult than breaking _in,_ and breaking in already took more out of him than he likes to admit. (He _knows_ something went missing when he arrived. The voices didn't stop screaming about it for days, but static always obscures their words when they try to tell him exactly what it is.)

He runs, and his body never stops aching, even when the burns from the lightning have started to heal. His shoulders feel so heavy, the world pressing down on him each morning, as he breaks down his camp and buries all evidence that he was ever there before marching onwards again. He hunts what he can, slowly replenishing his rations, but he never stays in place long enough to set up traps or go mining for resources. There will be time later, Techno tells himself, once he's gotten far enough to be safely out of L'Manberg's reach.

(The voices chastise him. _Good luck running from an admin on his own server,_ they say.)

Techno ignores them, as best he can.

Some nights are harder than others. A week after fleeing L'Manberg, he sits on the edge of a vast boreal tundra - a familiar environment, bringing back bittersweet memories of exploration and conquest and failed attempts at world domination. The sheep pelt draped around his shoulders does a poor job of keeping the chill at bay, but Techno's blood has always run hot, far hotter than that of his brothers or father. It burns inside him, a slow and molten heat, keeping him alive when a lesser man would've succumbed. A tiny campfire struggles to stay lit before him as he gnaws on one of his last baked potatoes, the hunger inside him impossible to sate.

The voices are eager to take advantage of his misery.

_lonelyblade_

**_technosad_ **

"Shut up, I'm not sad," Techno snaps, and... it's not a lie, not really. What he feels can't be described as simple sadness. Few things in his life have ever been _absolute;_ the adrenaline thrill of fighting, the safety of the open sky. Something else he can't quite put a name to - that thing his voices weep about, distraught and angry without justification, something that had to have been _important._ But above everything else, _Wilbur_ was his absolute, a lifeline even across the boundaries of distant servers. The voices in his head always sang in unified delight at each reunion, or screamed fury when Wilbur was hurt when they were kids. Phil eventually joined that all-too-short list of people the voices adore, and Tommy after that, but his twin was the _first,_ and should've been the last.

The voices don't know what to do now that Wilbur is gone. Techno doesn't know what to do, either. That hollow feeling that's haunted him since he broke into Dream's server has grown into a void, as deep and all-consuming as the one lurking beneath the bedrock of this world. For the first time, solitude feels like isolation; for the first time, the world feels like a prison, instead of something to be explored and experienced and _conquered._ There's no music in the wind anymore, no warmth in the crackle of harsh, starving flames.

There is only the absence of something he once thought to be _infinite._

And Wilbur is not the only absence that haunts him. Something is tangled and warped in Techno's code. He's traveled to enough servers, experienced enough strange and wondrous and _terrible_ things, to know that much. The details elude him, but he _knows_ his instincts are sound; something is broken inside him. There's no comfort in his own skin anymore, no company at his side to help make the harrowing darkness of night pass any smoother. (Even the voices disperse, in due course. They will return, inevitably, but for now, they are silent.)

Techno sighs, staring listlessly at the flames.

(If he lets his vision go blurry, he thinks he can see his twin within them.)

By the time sleep catches up to him, the fire has burned itself down to ash. The wind stirs, kicking up flakes of soot that dapple Techno's face. He can't find the energy to brush them away as his eyelids go heavy; they stain his skin like so much long-dried blood. The cold sets in, claiming him as he surrenders to dreamless sleep. The frozen tundra wraps around him like a blanket, or a funeral shroud, and he can't bring himself to care.

(The fire dies as Techno sleeps. The voices do not rouse him; they aren't worried. The dull spark of warmth in his blood is steady, despite the cold.)

(Some things are still absolute.)

* * *

Pain jolts Techno out of a restless slumber, piercing deep into his shoulder. He thrashes upright with a harsh yelp, stumbling through the dead ashes of his campfire as he spins to face his attacker. A spasm of pain wracks his body as he wrenches his arm a little too far, almost snapping the shaft of the bolt buried in the muscle. Gritting his teeth, he grasps his axe in his non-dominant hand, bracing for a second volley and desperately wishing he'd taken the time to craft a shield.

Figures move in the treeline, the glow of enchantments shining through the snowfall. A chorus of murmurs reach his ears, their language incomprehensible; recognition clicks with as a patrol of pillagers emerges with their crossbows raised. 

Most days, it would be trivially easy for Techno to defeat them. They may be more advanced than most server mobs, but pillagers are still slow to react, easy to outmaneuver. These ones, however, are lucky enough to have caught him in an ambush. Techno silently curses himself for not taking more precautions with his camp. At this point, he has two choices; fight at a steep disadvantage, or run.

He can feel blood trickling down his back and arm.

There's really no choice at all.

He runs.

The good thing about pillagers is they like to stick to their patrol routes. It makes them predictable, if you've taken the time to map out their patterns. Techno doesn't have to run far to lose their attention, and the moment he's sure they've given up the chase, he stumbles to the first small cave he can find. Sunrise is still hours away; he lights a few torches to illuminate the cave, then drags some heavy branches and loose rocks over the entrance. 

It's only when he pauses and leans heavily against the cave wall that he realizes how heavy his breathing has become. Black spots dapple the corners of his vision, the throbbing pain in his shoulder driving needles into his spine and the base of his skull. Slowly sagging to his knees, Techno shrugs off his sheepskin cloak and rummages through his pack. His hands shake as he retrieves his flint and steel, as well as a bundle of dried moss and some coal. Breaking off the driest branches from his shoddy barricade, he lumps them into a pile in the middle of the cave.

Within minutes, a fire roars. It won't last long the way he's constructed it, but he doesn't need it to; he just needs it as hot as possible, as _soon_ as possible.

With painstakingly precise movements - so as not to disturb the head of the bolt in his flesh any more than he already has - Techno lays the blade of his sword into the flames, letting it heat as he unbuttons his coat and shirt. This would be so much easier if he had a mirror at his disposal - or another pair of hands - but he clenches his jaw and gets to work anyway. 

The bolt isn't in too deep, and luckily it's missed hitting bone or major nerves. A half-inch in any other direction and he wouldn't be able to lift his right arm at all. Steeling himself with a slow breath, Techno grips his hunting knife and slowly digs the tip into the wound, carefully feeling for the metal head of the bolt. It's an arduous, borderline excruciating process, and he's forced to stop more than once when he moves too fast and his body flares with pain. Towards the end of it, he's having to blink away humiliating tears from his eyes, but finally, the bolt comes loose. It clatters to the ground behind him, blood gushing from the hole left behind.

Vision white with pain, Techno drops his hunting knife and grabs his sword. It takes some awkward contortions to get it positioned correctly, but once he has it at the right angle, he presses the flat of the blade down against his skin. A hoarse cry rips from his throat before he muffles it, biting down hard on his own arm to stifle the sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, wobbling from the pain as he cauterizes the wound.

When it's done, his sword slips from his hand, and he collapses on the ground. He grabs the sheepskin cloak and pulls it over himself almost as an afterthought, curling up as his body trembles and his shoulder burns with pain. The voices crowd his brain, squawking concern and praise and admiration.

**_TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES_ **

_should've killed them we could've taken them_

**_sleepyblade_ **

_oh thank Primes they didn't hit his ~~wings~~_

**_it wouldn't hit his ~~wings~~ anyway dumbass, ~~dream fucked them up remember~~_**

He tries not to think about the way some of their words turn into a garbled mess of static.

"Chat," he mutters, his old nickname for his voices a strange comfort in his self-imposed exile, "just - just shut up for a bit, okay?"

In a rare show of obedience, they listen.

His eyes droop closed, and sleep claims him faster than it has in weeks.

* * *

After the incident with the pillagers, it becomes abundantly clear that simply trekking for miles and miles across empty wilderness is not the best use of Techno's time or dwindling resources. His shoulder stays sore for days, his right arm barely capable of moving. The cauterization keeps the wound from reopening, at least, and Techno is lucky to have escaped the ordeal without an infection. He's pretty sure at this point, a fever might just be the end of him.

His fortunes take a turn for the better a few days later, when he stumbles upon a small village. Its inhabitants are skittish, wary of the strange, looming man who reeks of blood - a reaction Techno is used to garnering from most passive mobs. He briefly considers killing the local iron golem, but can't quite bring himself to commit to it, and settles for discreetly looting from the more exposed chests instead. A few loaves of bread, some apples, and some iron and gold ingots are tucked away into his pack in short order, but without access to the emeralds stashed away in his ender chest, the village can't provide him much else.

What the village _does_ provide is an unexpected blessing, in the form of a ruined nether portal on the snowy hill behind the blacksmith.

Techno barely believes his luck when he finds enough obsidian in the portal's chest to fill in the gaps. The voices cheer in triumph, and a tiny smile slips onto Techno's face at their exuberance. With a single expert strike of his flint and steel, he ignites the portal, and more discordant noise overlaps with the voices as a familiar purple veil shimmers to life within the obsidian frame. The world distorts around Techno as he steps through, emerging on the other side to a sweltering expanse of netherrack and lava.

The air smells of smoke, and he breathes in deep.

(The heat and the smoke and the warm glow of flame in the distance remind him, a little bit, of something that feels like home.)

* * *

Techno spends two days traveling across the Nether before he finds another ruined portal, one he completes with obsidian looted from a fortress. It wasn't his most graceful raid, but he came away from it mostly unscathed - save for a few quickly-healing burns - his pack heavy with the added weight of blaze rods, nether wart, a couple diamonds, more gold, and a well-crafted saddle. Before leaving the Nether, he barters most of his gold with the local piglins, coming away with a stack of ender pearls for his troubles. 

Sub-arctic cold blasts him in the face as soon as he reemerges into the overworld. His exit portal rests on an open tundra, knee-deep snow surrounding it. Techno's breath steams as he exhales; he's confidant no one in the server, probably not even the admin himself, has explored this far into the wilderness. It'll take any hunters a long, _long_ time to find him out here, unless they know what they're looking for, and quite frankly, no one else in Dream's server is that good a tracker. The only one he needs to worry about is Dream himself, and so long as he doesn't reactivate his communicator, he's safe from the admin's eyes.

It's as good a place as any to settle down from some unplanned retirement.

A cursory exploration of the area reveals a frigid coastline that is home to some exceptionally stubborn turtles, as well as another village a few ender pearl jumps away from the portal. Techno finds a good spot for a base equidistant between them, and gets right to work building it, felling spruce trees and mining stone, his right arm almost fully functional again, just prone to getting sore if he overexerts himself.

He carves out a decent-sized basement first, hauling a couple cows and some reluctant zombie villagers into it for safekeeping. The rest of the house slowly expands around it, walls and windows and a stairway up to the front door. It's not quite as impressive a feat of engineering as his vault, or any of his many bases on other worlds and servers, but it's functional, and after weeks of running, it's a relief to be able to sleep without fear of getting mauled to death by a polar bear.

The only real downside to his arctic refuge is how quiet it is. Techno has never minded the quiet peace of solitude before, but now the silence weighs heavily, amplifying the crackle of static in his ears and the discordant chattering of his voices. The voices, he's used to; the static feels like an intruder, a parasite lodged in his brain that he can't get rid of.

(The voices _know._ They try so hard to tell him, and the static always blocks them out. They're frustrated, and their frustration bleeds into him.)

Techno finds ways to fill the silence. When the house is half-complete - the second floor is still open to the elements - he builds an enclosure for bees, and goes on a three-day journey to find some. Their buzzing brings back warm memories of grassy fields and flower forests, of young boys playing in streams and running along cliffs.

The turtles don't make much noise, but Techno builds a shelter for them anyway. (The hatchlings are helpless against zombies. _Someone_ needs to protect them.)

By far the best addition to his household is Carl.

Techno has no idea what a solitary horse is doing out in the tundra, but Carl is a fearsome and resilient beast. The large black stallion is eerily intelligent, almost teasing Techno as he defies every early attempt to capture and tame him. When Techno finally gets ahold of him, it feels less like a successful capture, and more like a capitulation, and he can't help but regard Carl with respect for his stubbornness. He quickly learns Carl is exceptional in more ways than his cleverness; he's one of the fastest and strongest horses Techno has ever encountered, in the wild or otherwise.

They fit together perfectly.

"This was your plan all along, wasn't it?" Techno murmurs to Carl one day, as he brings him fresh wheat and apples in his stall. "You were just out here waitin' for some sucker to come along so you could mooch free food off him, huh?"

Carl nickers and bumps his head against Techno's shoulder. Techno chuckles under his breath, and the voices bombard him with accusations of soft-hearted mushiness. He rolls his eyes and ignores them. His animals are a practical investment; he cares very little for them beyond that, except for Carl, who is as perfect a horse as anyone could ever want.

(The voices abide him. They don't point out the first cow in the basement that Techno considered naming Henry, or the dogs he's slowly collecting, or the bees he's keeping around for no reason at all. They don't bring up the fact that his hair is tangled and overgrown, unshorn because he can't bear the thought of cutting away that thing his twin's hands used to expertly braid on quiet evenings.)

(The voices are stubborn. They'll win eventually.)

(But for now, they let him be.)

* * *

Some nights are worse than others.

Some nights, Techno wakes up screaming Wilbur's name, the taste of smoke inside his mouth and lungs.

Those nights, the voices wake up with him, screaming for _blood_. He picks up his axe and he goes out hunting, and he satiates them - and yet while the voices cheer, their lust for violence rewarded, he feels more empty inside than he's ever felt in his life.

Those nights, he stares at his communicator, wondering if it's worth the risk.

(The static in his ears tells him it isn't.)

* * *

Other nights, he looks at the empty tundra and imagines ugly cobblestone towers disgracing his pristine horizon.

He wonders if L'Manberg has rebuilt itself yet, in stubborn ignorance of Techno's warnings, in defiance of whatever Wilbur destroyed himself trying to prove.

What even was L'Manberg, he thinks, if not something created in anticipation of its own desolation? There has never been a L'Manberg without strife, without bloodshed. It was a place built on unhallowed ground, and it did not deserve to try to grow beyond its creator. It deserved to fall, and stay fallen, and yet Techno _knows_ it is probably struggling to stand again on its own merit, propped up by people who never understood why it existed in the first place.

L'Manberg was a descent to madness, an exercise in self-destruction. It was Wilbur's pain given shape, and it deserved to _burn_.

(But Wilbur, he remembers, was only ever one half of the equation. Wherever there was a man losing himself to the flames and the carnage, there was also a boy trying his damnedest to keep the foundations from crumbling. Trying to preserve what good he saw inside both the nation and his brother, losing everything to the failures of those around him.)

Techno grits his teeth, something akin to regret coiling in his gut.

If, despite everything, L'Manberg is still trying to rebuild...

There damn well better be some ugly cobblestone towers.

* * *

**_technolonely_ **

_technosad_

**_techno go back and kill green boi you gotta do it ~~you gotta get your wings back~~_**

_should we tell him about ghostbur?_

**_nah he'll find out when dadza gets here_ **

_guys shut up he's finally asleep leave him alone_

**_sleepyblade_ **

_he looks so wrong sleeping on his back like that it probably hurts_

**_yeah probably_ **

_~~gotta get technowing back~~ _

~~_**wingblade!** _ ~~

_dadza will come, dadza remembers, dadza will help_

**_yeah yeah yeah_ **

_dadza will help_

* * *

Almost a month and a half after leaving L'Manberg in ashes, the past that Techno can never hope to outrun quite literally comes knocking on his door.

Techno is shuffling through his cramped excuse for a kitchen, pulling together a meager breakfast, when he hears it. It's a soft knock on his front door, so quiet that it doesn't even disturb the two dogs sleeping by the fireplace. It might as well be a thunderclap, however, for the way it sets his voices off; their shouts overlap, too fast and too chaotic for him to pick out even a single coherent word. The best he can make out is a tone of overwhelming glee, and relief.

So, it's fairly safe to assume whoever has found him isn't hostile, or at least his voices don't think they are. His best guess is a wandering trader, although he's not accustomed to them going so far as _knocking_ on his front door.

As a precaution, he picks up his hunting knife before walking to the door. His axe sits by the doorframe, in reach should it be necessary.

He pulls the door open slowly, and-

Of course. _Of course._

The voices unify into a single deafening word as a blonde figure in a heavy cloak and a striped boater hat tilts his head back to look up at Techno, green eyes meeting red.

"Techno," Phil says.

 _ **DADZA** , _the voices shriek.

Techno stands frozen on his doorstep, forgetting momentarily how to breathe. The breeze disturbs Phil's cloak, just enough to let slip a hint of a sword strapped to his waist, a sword that Techno will never be able to get out of his head.

"Phil," he acknowledges in monotone, heart almost beating out of his chest. "Hardly recognized you without Wilbur's blood all over your hands."

It's a pathetic, needlessly cruel remark - Techno heard his brother's last words, same as everyone else, screamed through the smoke - but Aether above and Void below, he hopes it _stings._

Phil's expression remains placid. "I could say the same to you," he replies calmly. "Your voice sounds so different when you're not telling young boys to die."

Techno grimaces. "...Touché." He leans against the doorframe, listless gaze dropping from Phil's face back to the sword. It's not hard to imagine what Phil's come here to do. Heaving a defeated sigh, he mutters, "Well, you found me. Just get it over with."

He's sure that Wilbur looked Phil in the eyes, when it ended. He refuses to give Phil that satisfaction. Refuses to _beg_ for it. If Phil wants to end him the same way he ended Techno's twin, he'll have to step forward and make an _effort._ Techno won't stop him - despite everything, he can't bring himself to even _think_ about hurting Phil. He simply hovers in the doorway, neither inside nor out, the voices blurring over each other as they cry confusion and disbelief.

He hears the clink of metal as Phil steps forward, and he braces instinctively when he sees the hand rise up in his peripheral vision.

When the hand comes down on his cheek, the touch feather-light, something shatters inside Techno. Something long repressed, a raw and aching thing that lodges in his throat and chokes the breath from his lungs. His gaze darts up to meet Phil's again as the fingers curl into a lock of his tangled hair, rubbing it between forefinger and thumb, the same way Phil did so many times when Techno was young and still learning how to not always be so angry at the universe.

"Your hair's a mess, Techno," his father says softly, a sad smile on his lips. "Would you like me to braid it for you again?"

Techno's throat aches. He leans instinctively into his father's touch, nostrils flaring with short, unsteady breaths. There's a dull clang as the knife slips from his hand, dropping to the floorboards, forgotten. It's a shameful display - the ferocious, undefeated Technoblade, undone by a single glancing touch. Somehow, he can't bring himself to care, and for once, none of his voices react with disdain or teasing. They fall mercifully quiet, leaving him alone as he faces Phil.

He wants to be angry.The first time he saw his father in _years,_ he watched him put a sword through his twin's gut.

He deserves to be _furious._

But he's so, so tired.

"...Yeah," he croaks, voice barely louder than a whisper, "I'd like that."

Phil's smile is one of both relief and regret. "May I come in?"

Techno nods, stepping aside to let Phil enter, hunching over and almost crumpling when Phil's hand leaves his cheek. He closes the door and locks it again as Phil strides in past him, his hand clutching the doorknob tight - if he lets go, he feels like his legs might give out underneath him.

Slowly, he risks turning around. "Phil, I-"

Before he can get another word out, his father drags him into a hug. Techno is more than a head taller than his father, and considerably broader; Phil's head presses into his sternum, his arms wrapping tight beneath Techno's shoulders. Techno freezes for a half-second, heart pounding, before he collapses into the embrace, burying his face into the crook of Phil's neck, his hands gathering fistfuls of his father's cloak.

They stand there in silence for a long, long time, neither willing to be the first to let go.

Eventually, Phil squirms a bit in Techno's grasp. "Tech," he mumbles, "you're smothering me, mate."

Techno immediately releases him, uncomfortably aware of his own strength when it gets away from his control. "Sorry."

Phil pats him on the shoulder. "It's okay," he says reassuringly, taking a half-step back and giving Techno a once-over. Techno shuffles underneath the gentle force of his father's stare; somehow, the blatant concern is worse than condemnation. "You've lost weight," he observes.

Techno grimaces, hearing the unspoken intonation of _you look half-dead_ in his father's careful words. "You're just not used to seein' me without all my armor," he says evasively.

To his surprise, Phil brightens. "Oh! I found your armor, actually. Fished it up from the river. Do you have an ender chest?"

Techno blinks. "Uh... yeah," he says, gesturing towards the corner of the room, where the obsidian chest sits tucked in amongst his normal ones. He stands awkwardly off to the side as Phil opens it and pulls out a chestplate, a helmet, and a pair of boots; all gleaming netherite, the enchantment glow still intact.

"This was all I could find," Phil says, resting the armor on the table in the middle of the room. "I did my best fixing them up for you."

His father's tone makes it sound like an apology. Maybe it is.

"Thanks," Techno says quietly. He doesn't bother examining the armor; his father has survived for years in worlds that would've claimed the lives of lesser men within _weeks,_ he knows how to repair broken things. (Broken people are much, much harder.)

Phil barely moves. It feels wrong, seeing him stand statue-stiff in Techno's cabin. Somehow Techno can't even find the energy to be surprised that his father managed to track him down; if anyone was going to manage it, it would've been Phil. If anything, he's surprised it took Phil this long.

(He's a little surprised he came at all.)

The silence quickly becomes unbearable, especially with the unprecedented absence of the voices. "Phil..."

"Your brother's a ghost," Phil blurts out, the words spilling from his lips as if a dam has broken open.

Techno's thoughts grind to a halt. _"...Heh?"_

Phil's eyes are unusually bright. It takes a moment to realize that they're damp. "Wilbur," he whispers. "He's... he came back. I don't know how. He's calling himself Ghostbur now, and he doesn't... he doesn't remember everything."

The whole world feels like it tilts sharply to one side. Techno's head spins, and he drops down into the nearest chair, feeling his knees go weak. The voices return with renewed fervor, rattling inside his skull.

_GHOSTBUR_

**_I wish he was here they really need to talk_ **

_no he has to keep an eye on Tommy remember_

**_Dadza come on ~~you know exactly why he came back he's a fucking phoenix~~_**

Techno twitches, squeezing his eyes shut as he plants his elbows on the table and grinds his palms into his face. "Shut _up,"_ he grates out between clenched teeth, "please, I can't tell what you're sayin', just _shut up-"_

He feels Phil's hand come to rest on his shoulder. His voice feels far away, muffled by the din of static, but the words come through clearly.

"Chat," he says gently, "I know you're probably trying to help, but please, just let him be for a little bit, okay?"

It's been a long time since Phil had reason to address Techno's voices directly. A chorus of confusion among some of the newer voices rings out, but the rest silence them quickly; they may be stubborn about listening to Techno, but if one things is consistent about them, it's that ever since Techno worked up the bravery to explain the voices to his father, they have _always_ listened to Phil when he speaks to them.

Techno exhales a ragged breath. Phil sits down adjacent to him, rubbing Techno's arm as the voices subside.

"Have they been bad lately?"

"Ehh," Techno mumbles, giving a half-shrug. "Not really. They've been listenin' a bit more than usual, it's just..." He slowly peels his hands away from his face, gesturing aimlessly into the air as he struggles to put words to the feeling in his head. "It's like there's this, uh... somethin' that's cloggin' them up now. Can't hear half of what they say, it just turns into garbled nonsense. Not that most of what they say normally isn't nonsense to begin with."

Phil goes quiet again for a moment.

"Something is blocking them?" he asks. "Like static?"

Techno raises an eyebrow at his father. "...Yeah," he says, suspicion growing in the back of his mind. "Like static."

Phil's lips press together into a thin line. It's the only hint his expression gives of anything more than the veneer of calm he usually projects, and it's a little unsettling. Techno expects _more_ from his father; more vivacity, more emotion, more _chaos_ in his movements. As long as he's known Phil, there's always been a kind of bright energy to his demeanor, something mirroring the restlessness Techno often feels. Something not quite as high-strung as Tommy, or as melodramatic as Wilbur - he can't put a name to it, but it _should_ be there, and for some reason, it _isn't_ anymore.

His first instinct is that maybe killing Wilbur broke something fundamental in Phil, but... that doesn't feel quite right, either.

"Your voices are smarter than I think you give them credit for, Techno," Phil says with a low, oddly relieved-sounding chuckle.

Techno's brow furrows. His voices are a lot of things, but _smart_ isn't usually an adjective he attributes to them. They have a tendency to rile themselves up into a fervor, losing all sense and reason along the way. It's a bit absurd for Phil to praise them. "You goin' senile already, old man?"

Phil shakes his head. "No, mate. I think Chat just remembers something important, and they've been trying to tell you."

"Tell me _what?"_

Phil's smile is warm, like the sun. Techno doesn't deserve it, but he basks in it all the same. It's almost enough to keep him from feeling the cold jolt of _shock_ that runs through him, when his father next opens his mouth to speak.

"Your wings, Techno," he murmurs. "I think they've been trying to tell you about your wings."

For a moment, Techno thinks Phil really _has_ gone prematurely senile.

Then the static fills his head, louder than ever before.

Then the voices come back, unified in their anger, a protectiveness they rarely display with such sincerity.

With a choked-off whine, Techno grabs the sides of his head, doubling over onto the table. Phil is by his side in an instant, one hand slowly carding through Techno's hair, the other holding him steady by the shoulder. It feels as though there should be something else, something dark and soft curling away from Phil's back, shielding Techno like it did so many times when Techno and his brothers were children, except it _isn't there-_

The static snarls in his head. The voices, however, have been with Techno _far_ longer than the static has. They know him better, they know his _memories_ better, and they vastly outnumber the source of the static. They can't push it back completely - the static is hooked into his warped, fractured code, and will not let him go just yet - but they drown out its influence, just enough to let Techno think clearly.

Most memories are still shrouded, but some clarity returns with a shuddering gasp, and the space between his shoulder blades _aches._

"Just breathe, mate," Phil whispers, "I've got you."

And he does.

Even without wings, he does.

* * *

(Far, far away, George comes to Dream, exclaiming in distress that someone has burned down part of his house.)

(Dream nods and listens, and behind his mask, he smiles. First Wilbur, now Tommy - brothers never learning from each other's mistakes, each abandoned by their father to a fate so much more delightful than death.)

(The sons of Philza, as ever, fall so easily into Dream's hands.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, I wonder what our Tommy boy has been getting up to while Techno and Phil were away...
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day y'all! Do leave a comment if you liked the chap! I love to see em :D thank you guys so much for all the love you're showing this fic, you're all awesome


	6. brokenness is a form of art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy faces consequences. Tubbo is forced to choose. Ghostbur doesn't understand. Ranboo still can't remember.
> 
> And Dream?
> 
> Dream finally has his little bird exactly where he wants him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from "Neptune" by Sleeping At Last)
> 
> (To the person in the bookmarks tenderly dunking on poor Dadza, don't think I don't see you 👀)

Tommy and Ranboo's clandestine return to New L'Manberg is ruined almost immediately by a clap of thunder and a sudden downpour. Tommy doesn't think much of it at first - the first few days of his exile with Wilbur, before they found Pogtopia, were a miserable affair of sleeping under trees and slogging through rainstorms - but any hope for stealth is shattered the second Ranboo starts screaming.

Tommy's eyes go wide. "Aw, shit-"

His heartbeat races in his chest as Ranboo drops to his knees, his entire form flickering with purple sparks. Of fucking course the rain hurts him, he's half enderman, and unlike his mob-kin, he apparently can't teleport to get away from it. Bundled nerves tense between Tommy's shoulders, a barely-there instinct demanding he unfurl and give Ranboo shelter under the cover of feathers, but he can't - he can't. The best he can do is grab Ranboo and drag him underneath the nearest tree. The lanky bastard doesn't make it easy; he thrashes the entire way, his jaws splitting open to bare those terrifying teeth that could probably bite Tommy's head off if he got too close.

As soon as they're under the tree, Ranboo clamps his hands over his mouth, harsh whines grating between his teeth. The purple distortion around his body subsides, and he curls tightly into the fetal position, as if he can hide from the rain if he makes himself small enough. An unreasonable amount of guilt twists in Tommy's stomach, and he yanks off his scarf, tossing it over Ranboo's head. It doesn't do much, but it's better than nothing. 

They really need to get indoors. Lightning flashes in the sky; the storm is only going to get worse.

As Tommy stares out at the rain, thoughts racing frantically to pull together a plan, he catches a glimpse of approaching lantern light. A moment later, a door creaks open somewhere, and raised voices sound off, the words lost beneath another rumble of thunder. Tommy squints, focusing on three figures jogging down the wooden path; a fourth emerges from a nearby house to join them. Niki's house, Tommy realizes when his brain slows down enough to recognize where they are.

He cups his hands to his mouth. "Niki! Over here!"

Ranboo flinches beside him as the four figures rush down the pathway. Niki is the first to reach the tree, her scarf nearly flying off her neck in her haste. Tommy vaguely acknowledges the forms of Punz, Karl, and Jack Manifold behind her. All three of them are armed for patrol duty, and the light of Karl's lantern falls harshly across Tommy and Ranboo's forms.

"Tommy," Niki says breathlessly, "what're you doing out here??"

"Um." Fuck. Niki isn't stupid, she'll catch him in a lie instantly if he tries to pull one over on her. Biting the inside of his cheek, he goes with the least incriminating version of the truth. "I was just tryin' to get home. With him." He gestures down at Ranboo, still curled up behind Tommy, his green eye peering out from underneath Tommy's scarf. "This is, uh. This is Ranboo. I found him out in the woods."

Aether, he makes Ranboo sound like a lost puppy.

(In a way, it's not so inaccurate.)

He doesn't miss the way Punz's eyes narrow warily behind his netherite helmet, nor the stiffening of Karl and Jack's shoulders as they exchange a startled glance. Niki, at least, just purses her lips sympathetically, although her gaze does linger on Ranboo just long enough to become uncomfortable before her eyes fix onto Tommy again. Her brow furrows with concern as another clap of thunder sounds off, and Ranboo buries his head in his arms.

 _Enderman hybrid?_ she mouths, bewildered.

Tommy gives a shallow nod in response. Immediately, Niki pulls off her coat and drapes it over Ranboo's shoulders. "There, that should help keep the rain off," she says with a gentle smile, extending a hand to help Ranboo up. "Why don't we get you boys inside?"

Somewhat reluctantly, Ranboo accepts Niki's hand and wobbles to his feet. Even hunched over beneath Niki's coat, he looms over the rest of them. He's not someone Tommy would necessarily call intimidating, but Karl and Jack shift uncertainly when Ranboo takes a tentative step out from the shadow of the tree. Punz in particular seems on guard, leveling Ranboo with a critical stare, as if Ranboo somehow poses a threat to New L'Manberg.

"How did you get onto the server??" Karl asks, trying and failing to restrain his shock.

Ranboo wilts. "I don't... I don't know."

Tommy sees Punz bristle, clearly not believing him. Leaving Ranboo at Niki's side, he brazenly steps into Punz's personal space, glaring at the fully-armored man with the same bullheaded defiance he's shown to Techno and Dream and Schlatt and everyone who's tried to hurt his friends. (For what it's worth, Punz actually seems to flinch. Maybe out of guilt, or shame, or maybe because big man Tommy Innit is just that damn intimidating.)

"Back off, dickhead," Tommy snaps. "He's not gonna hurt anybody, he just needs a place to stay."

"He shouldn't even _be_ here," Punz says lowly.

"Yeah, well, he's here now, so you're just gonna have to deal with it."

They stare each other down for a moment, Tommy silently daring Punz to call his bluff - if Punz wants Ranboo gone, there's not a damn thing Tommy can do about it on any practical level, short of throwing himself in front of the blade before it falls. When the tension finally breaks, it's with a heavy, begrudging sigh from Punz. "Fine," he mutters, "but I have to report this to Tubbo and the rest of the cabinet. You should inform them in the morning, too."

Tommy shrugs off the warning in Punz's tone. He feels a subtle flicker of pride when Punz backs down; it's nice to know he commands some respect as Vice President. "Yeah, yeah, roger that, over and out," he mutters under his breath as he shoulders past the disgruntled mercenary, Niki and Ranboo hot on his heels. He leads them across a few rickety canal bridges, through the middle of the new city square, and finally up the steps to Phil's house. It's cold and dark inside, but at least it's dry. 

"Thanks, Niki," Tommy says, breathing a sigh of relief as he grabs two towels from a chest for himself and Ranboo. "Uh, Ranboo, this is Niki. She's-" A friend? An ally from the war? A fellow mourner of Wilbur Soot who only lets herself cry for him when she thinks nobody's looking? The possible answers snag on his teeth, and instead he fumbles, "she's got a bakery here in town, it's pretty pog."

Ranboo blinks. "It's nice to meet you, Niki," he says quietly, pulling her coat off his shoulders and handing it back, movements awkwardly stiff. "Thanks, for this. I um. I didn't think the rain would be that bad."

Niki smiles gently. "It's nice to meet you, too. Are you going to be staying with Tommy until you get your own place?"

"I..." Ranboo looks to Tommy, searching for reassurance. Tommy offers a shrug. "I guess so."

"Well, if you need help with anything, or you want a tour of the server and Tommy isn't around, come by the bakery," Niki says as she steps back to the door. Ranboo nods and begins toweling himself dry, and while he isn't looking, she shoots Tommy a worried, questioning glance. Tommy shakes his head, tight-lipped; there are no answers he can give her, at least not right now. She accepts his silence for the time being, mustering a smile when Ranboo looks back up.

"Welcome to the server, Ranboo," she says quietly, before she leaves.

As the door clicks closed behind her, Tommy lets out a low groan and drags his hands down his face. "Well, that could've gone better," he grumbles.

"I think it went pretty good," Ranboo says, and Tommy can't tell if he's being sarcastic. "Niki seems nice. And that other guy didn't kick me out, which is _also_ nice."

"Niki _is_ nice. Niki is _lovely._ But Punz is a dickhead, and you should stay away from him. All he cares about is money, which I can understand, I love money almost as much as I love women, but he's a dick about it."

Ranboo laughs under his breath. "What about the other two? They seemed a little weirded out by me."

"Jack and Karl?" Tommy shrugs. "I don't know, I guess they're chill. I'm not surprised they were all squirrelish, we don't, uh - we don't get new people on the server a lot. The last two to join were my, uh..." His mouth goes dry. "My brother, and our dad. And they weren't supposed to be here, either."

Ranboo is still for a long time. Tommy lets him be, and works on getting a fire started. By the time he has one going, Ranboo still hasn't moved an inch, and he almost believes he's fallen asleep on his feet, until Ranboo suddenly breaks the silence.

"That isn't right," he intones, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Tommy scoffs. "There's a lot about this server that isn't right," he says bitterly, grabbing an armful of spare blankets from a chest and dumping them in a pile in front of the fireplace. "You learn to deal with it." When Ranboo shows no signs of moving, Tommy snaps his fingers to get his attention and gestures across the room. "You can have Phil's bed."

Ranboo blinks. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I've slept in worse places. (The ravine was damp and dark, for the first few nights. It never stopped being cold.)

Uncertainty and relief overlap in Ranboo's movements as he crawls on top of the bed. He acts like he's never even seen a bed before, and has no idea what to do with it, but Tommy can't be bothered to care. Exhaustion pulls at his limbs, and his lungs ache, the taste of rain and smoke still clinging to his mouth. His eyelids droop heavily as he flops down in the nest of blankets, succumbing to sleep. Whether or not Ranboo can figure out how a bed works isn't his problem right now.

"Hey, Tommy?"

"Mhm?"

The last thing Tommy hears before sleep claims him is Ranboo's murmur of "Thank you", the angry rumble of thunder outside, and the quiet scratching of paper and pen.

* * *

Ranboo stares at Tommy's silhouette as he curls up on his side by the fireplace. He looks... small. (The child in his borrowed memories felt so much larger. This Tommy before him now feels like a shallow reflection, this fallen thing without feathers.) 

Tommy's a strange boy. Volatile and loud and angry, but more importantly, he's _kind,_ despite his anger, despite the furious thing Ranboo swears he can hear screaming between his ribs. The other people on this server seem kind, too - especially Niki - but Tommy is different. Maybe it's because he's a hybrid, like Ranboo, but it feels like there's more to it than that. There's a desperation in his kindness, in the manic way he defends Ranboo, a strange protectiveness under his veneer of cocky indifference. (It's like he's clinging to second chances, while everything else slips away from him.)

A fragile smile tugging at his lips, Ranboo pulls out his book, thumbing open to a new page. On its blank surface, he starts a new list, while he still remembers.

_Your friends_

  * _Tommy_



It isn't much, but it's a start - and with any luck, if these people allow Ranboo to stay, the list will grow, and maybe he won't feel so alone.

* * *

  
Come the morning, Tommy wakes to sore limbs and aching shoulders, and a flurry of messages flashing at him from the communicator band on his wrist. With a bleary groan, he drags himself out of the blankets, briefly glancing at the bed to find Ranboo still asleep. His stomach grumbles hungrily, but he ignores for the time being as he opens his communicator, the messages lightning up before his eyes.

He quickly forgets his hunger as a jolt of dread courses through him.

**_[Quackity] dream is pissed, what the fuck did you do_ **

**_[Punz] That hybrid better still be with you. Don't let him out of your sight._ **

_**[Tubbo] tommy wake up** _

_**[Tubbo] why didn't you tell me you found someone new on the server ???** _

_**[Tubbo]** _ _**get to the meeting house right now** _

_**[Tubbo] TOMMY THIS ISN'T A JOKE GET HERE NOW** _

"Fuck," Tommy whispers under his breath. The messages are recent, all of them less than half an hour old. Scrambling to his feet, he mutes his communicator again and yanks on his boots before shaking Ranboo's shoulder. "Ay, Ranboo, wake up, we got a problem big man-"

Ranboo jerks awake the second Tommy starts to shake him, his entire body flickering with purple static for a split second, nearly going translucent. Tommy backpedals immediately, warning bells sounding off in his head as Ranboo lets out a sharp yelp of alarm. After a tense beat, Ranboo lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand down his face as his eyes fall on Tommy and recognition seems to click. "Sorry," he murmurs.

"Yeah, uh, me too, didn't mean to freak you out," Tommy says quickly. "Look, we got a bit of a problem. My com is getting spammed with shit, I don't think - I don't think people are too happy with us right now." Something lodges tightly in his throat and clogs up the space between his ears like cotton - something that feels like battle panic, adrenaline and terror compounding into an animalistic urge to _run._ Tommy clamps down on that urge as best he can, because he's not a fucking _coward._ He's a big man, and whatever's waiting for him at the meeting house, he can face it head-on.

Ranboo doesn't share his determination. He wilts at Tommy's words, shrinking away on the bed until his back is pressed against the wall. Tommy holds in a sigh as he steps forward, trying to reach out gently, the way Phil does, the way he _wishes_ Techno would, the way Wilbur used to do, a long, _long_ time ago. "C'mon, it won't be so bad," he tries to reassure, even while his tongue feels heavy as lead in his mouth. "We just gotta go meet my friend Tubbo. It'll be fine."

For whatever it's worth, Tommy's words seem to put Ranboo at ease.

(For what it's worth, Ranboo seems to trust him.)

Last night's rain has left a coating of dew on every surface outside, glistening like tiny diamonds under the morning sunlight. Ranboo follows Tommy out the door nervously, fidgeting with something small and glossy - a piece of flat gold, Tommy notices. (It reminds him a bit of Techno's crown.) Tommy's brow furrows as he descends the steps to the central podium; the sunlight doesn't feel quite as blinding as it should. There is a strange shadow across New L'Manberg, but Tommy is used to seeing shadows in places there shouldn't be any, and barely acknowledges it at first.

Then Tommy looks up, and sees the obsidian walls surrounding the city.

His heart sinks to his stomach.

"...Were those there last night?" Ranboo whispers from behind his shoulder.

Tommy clenches his jaw, heart racing in his chest. "Nope," he grates out. "They definitely were _not_."

There's so much obsidian, rising terrifyingly high around New L'Manberg - an oppressive cage of nightmare black, like the Void itself. There's only one way it all could've gotten there overnight. Its looming shadow haunts him as he guides Ranboo up the path to the meeting house. Neither of them speak a word as they approach the front door, already hearing raised voices from inside; Quackity's voice sounds frustrated, Tubbo's voice sounds strained and desperate, and Dream-

Tommy's blood runs cold, his hand hovering an inch from the doorknob.

Dream's tone is - _angry,_ but there's something else underneath the words, something malicious. It sounds like he's holding in laughter.

Gritting his teeth - ignoring the sudden, flaring ache in his shoulders - Tommy shoves the door open and steps inside. All eyes snap towards him at once; Tubbo's wide with relief and confusion, Quackity and Fundy identical mirrors of aggravation. George is there, too, standing on the far side of the table, his arms crossed and his lips drawn into a frown, his eyes invisible behind the goggles. Dream stands beside him, posture relaxed, cocking his head to the side when Tommy slams the door open.

"Well, well," Dream quips, "nice of you boys to finally join us."

Tommy narrows his eyes. "What the fuck do you want? What's with the wall?"

"Tommy-" Tubbo whispers in warning, before getting cut off by Dream again.

"Last night," he says coldly, "someone burned down George's house. And the only two people we can't account for are you," a weighty pause, "and this _outsider_ who has somehow broken into my server. Those walls aren't coming down until I find out which one of you is responsible."

The eyes shift from Tommy to Ranboo, harsh and untrusting. Muscles tense in Tommy's shoulders, instincts burned into his very bones demanding he flare out wings and shield Ranboo from their sight, the way Phil and his brothers used to shield _him._ It isn't fair, the way their stares fix warily on Ranboo, as if _he's_ the one to blame instead of Dream, instead of-

Instead of _Tommy._

He can't see Dream's eyes, but while everyone else is looking at Ranboo, Tommy _knows_ the arrogant bastard is staring right at him.

"Tommy," Tubbo finally manages, "why didn't you tell me you were bringing someone into the city??"

Stomach twisting, Tommy shrugs. "I was gonna tell you today," he mutters. "I found him last night, it was all stormy and shit when we got back, we just wanted to fucking _sleep."_ Shooting a glare in George and Dream's direction, he snaps, "You're a real piece of work, huh? 'Oh, look at me, I can trap a whole fucking city in obsidian for my stupid friend who's whining about his stupid house, I'm so cool'. Fucking _prick._ Why would Ranboo even _want_ to burn down a house, huh? He's barely even been here a _day."_

"Well, since I'm sure it wasn't _you,_ Tommy," Dream says, and Aether above, Tommy can _see_ the grin behind the mask, like a snake unhinging its jaws, "that really only leaves _Ranboo_ as a possibility, doesn't it?"

"Maybe George's shitty house got struck by lightning, did you think of that?"

Quackity pinches the bridge of his nose. "The fuck is your problem, Tommy?? We're trying to figure this out, and you're not helping-"

"Figure _what_ out?" Tommy snaps, something raw and furious burning in his throat. It's happening, it's happening again right in front of him, and he feels rooted to the ground, fists clenched at his sides, shaking. (He knows Dream is laughing, even though none of them can hear it, he _knows.)_ "You're all just trying to pin the blame on the easy target, Ranboo didn't _do_ anything-"

"How can you be sure of that?" Tubbo asks, still desperately trying to keep some semblance of order as the meeting spirals out of his control. "Tommy, you said you found him last night, where exactly was that?"

The words skid on Tommy's tongue. "I don't know, just - out in the woods somewhere."

Tubbo and Quackity exchange a brief glance. Fundy still hasn't said a damn word since Tommy arrived, and seems to be doing everything in his power not to look Tommy in the eye. It's impossible to say if he's doing so out of guilt, or because he's simply lost the ability to care anymore. (He didn't look at Phil, either, not once in the last three weeks. Tommy has to wonder how Phil never noticed, but Phil's done a shit job of noticing a lot of things.) 

Dream chuckles. "Oh, Tommy. Is this really any way for a Vice President to be acting?"

To Tommy's surprise, before he can fire off a worthy retort to Dream's snide comment, Quackity rounds sharply on his heel to face the admin. "You're not helping either, _Dream,"_ he says scathingly. "We're _trying_ to get this figured out for you and George, the least you can do is just let us talk to Tommy without you constantly baiting him. And don't think we're done talking about that stupid ultimatum of yours, that's not gonna fucking fly."

Tommy's brow furrows. "Wait, what ultimatum?"

Dream doesn't answer. Tubbo drags a hand through his hair, glancing anxiously between Tommy and Dream before clearing his throat.

"Dream, ah," he say shakily, "Dream thinks that whoever burned down George's house is trying to inci... incite conflict, between New L'Manberg and the rest of the server. He believes that whoever is responsible is a - a threat to the stability of the server, and should be exiled from New L'Manberg, since they - they've shown they don't care about peace, and just want to cause more chaos."

Tubbo's staring straight at Tommy now, his eyes shimmering and slightly damp. Tommy can hear the unspoken plea in his trembling voice; _please, please don't be you._

"Look, nobody's getting exiled!" Quackity says firmly. "Nobody got hurt last night, we just need to figure out who did it, and we'll work it out from there."

It's painfully clear, from the way everyone stands tense and frozen, that Quackity is the _only_ person in the room who believes that.

"I think I made myself very clear, Quackity," Dream says, his tone dripping with condescension. "Honestly, I don't know what you're getting so worked up about. It's not as if Ranboo is a citizen of L'Manberg, so it's not really exile, is it? Just let me take him, and I'll bring down the walls."

Tommy bristles, pulse roaring in his ears. Ranboo's code is already so fucked up, he can't even _remember_ anything - if Dream gets his hands on him, he'll break so easily, just like - just like Wilbur-

"Shut the fuck up," Tommy snarls, "he didn't _do_ anything-"

"Oh? And how can you be so sure?"

He can feel Tubbo's wide-eyed stare boring into him, silently begging him not to say another fucking word. Fundy's head is down, gaze fixed on the floor, like he's already given up, and Quackity looks ready to strangle Dream. George at least has the decency to shift uncomfortably on his feet, as if he's finally realizing how fucked up this all is. Tommy sees a purple haze in the corner of his eye, surrounding Ranboo, as if Dream's words hurt as badly as the rain did, and Tommy can't hear anything over the static filling his head-

"I know it wasn't him because it was _me,_ okay?!"

The room goes silent. Tommy wants to badly to run, the second he realizes what he just said, but - he can't. His legs are frozen stiff, like stone.

Tubbo looks like he's about to cry. "Tommy..." he whispers. "You _didn't."_

Tommy grits his teeth. No turning back now. "Yeah," he mutters defiantly, glaring at Dream. "I did. So what now, bitch?" His hand grips the handle of his sword, ready to pull it from its sheathe. He may not have armor or a shield right now, and Ranboo has _nothing,_ but Quackity and Fundy and Tubbo all have their weapons at least, and George is a _terrible_ fighter, so if Dream actually tries to take Tommy, he at least will have to put up a fight to do so.

"Well, I suppose that's up to your president, isn't it?" Dream says, and Tommy can hear the smirk in the words.

Tubbo winces as Dream's head turns towards him. "Dream, _please,"_ he says, barely louder than a breath. "Don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything, Tubbo," Dream says with disarming calm, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I won't _have_ to do anything, so long as you make the right choice, and I think you already know what that is."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tommy snarls.

Dream's head snaps back towards Tommy, the motion alarmingly quick - quicker than a normal human's head should turn. "Always slow on the uptake, aren't you? All I'm saying is Tubbo needs to start thinking of what's best for L'Manberg."

Quackity steps forward abruptly, planting himself between Tubbo and Dream as Tubbo looks down at the floor with a thousand-yard stare. "You son of a bitch," he growls, "the only thing L'Manberg needs is for you to drop those fucking _walls."_

"No," Dream retorts, slamming his hand down on the table. "No, Quackity, those walls aren't coming down until Tommy Innit is removed from this city. They will stay up, as long as it takes for you all to realize that he has never done anything except cause problems for this country. Until you accept that, those walls will remain, and no one is going to leave. I will get Punz to patrol the walls and _make sure_ no one leaves - I can get Sapnap to do the same-"

It's strange. The instant Sapnap's name leaves Dream's tongue, Quackity _flinches._

(Idle memories stir. Sapnap's spent a lot of time in L'Manberg since its destruction. Tommy's ended up talking with him while they rebuild, once or twice. At first he seemed sad, empty in the same way everyone else is. But he's seemed happier, the last few times Tommy has seen him. He spends a lot of time with Quackity these days, or with Karl when Quackity is busy helping Tubbo run the country. And Dream could take that all away, if he wanted.)

When Quackity falls silent, no one else speaks up in Tommy's defense, and the weight in the room becomes crushing.

"Well, Tubbo?" Dream presses, a reverberation in his voice that sounds like the ground splitting open. "What'll it be?"

When Tubbo finally lifts his head and looks at Tommy again, there is a moment where his small, blunt horns seem so much longer, coiling around the sides of his face. For a moment, he seems taller, older, a sinister smile painted on his face, and there is suddenly a different voice shouting in Tommy's head, forcing him to run from his home as crossbows snap and bolts thump into the ground around him.

For a moment, Schlatt and Tubbo blur over each other.

Then Schlatt fades away, and it's just Tommy's best friend staring at him, his eyes red and damp as he wrings his hands.

"Tommy," he whispers, voice cracking, "I'm so, so sorry."

Tommy feels like he's been punched in the gut. "...what??"

As tears threaten at the corners of Tubbo's eyes, he rips his gaze away from Tommy and looks back to Dream. "I have decided," he croaks out, "that the - the best course of action, for - for the sake of L'Manberg - is for Tommy to be exiled."

The silence following Tubbo's words is deafening. Even George looks shocked, though he still doesn't say anything that might be able to sway Dream's intentions. As Tommy struggles for breath - struggles to recover from the surge of horrid, gut-wrenching _betrayal_ that just shot through his system - Fundy looks up for the first time since Tommy and Ranboo arrived at the meeting house.

"Tubbo, what are you _doing??"_ he exclaims in horror.

"I'm sorry," is all Tubbo can get out before his voice cracks again, and he clamps his mouth shut.

Tommy barely notices Dream striding around the table. He can't take his eyes off Tubbo, his best friend, who can't even _look_ at him now. If Dream wanted to take him away from this place, away from his friends, away from the only thing he has left of _Wilbur -_ he could do it, he could do it _so_ easily, but-

Why isn't anyone _trying_ to fight for him?? Quackity, Fundy, Tubbo - they stand so still, overcome by shock, and none of them try to stop Dream as he grabs Tommy's arm.

"Smart choice, Tubbo," Dream says. "Do keep an eye on Ranboo for me, will you?"

Dream's hand curls around Tommy's bicep, and a crackle of static fills the air.

"Tubbo-!" Tommy starts to scream, rage and shock and grief filling his lungs as the world goes blurry. _"Tubbo!"_

The world distorts, consumed by a jagged haze of static, and then Tommy and Dream are outside of the obsidian walls. Tommy stumbles as a wave of nausea courses through him, but Dream holds him up with an iron grip, shaking his head. "You know, you've nobody to blame for this but yourself, Tommy," he chides. "L'Manberg finally has a chance for a peaceful beginning, and you tried to ruin that by burning George's house, like a selfish, petty child."

"Fuck you," Tommy snarls.

Dream pulls his axe off his back, shoving Tommy away from the walls. "Start walking," he orders. "We've got a long way to go."

For a moment, Tommy considers resisting, but the gleam of that diamond axe stays his tongue. A bitter ache wells up in his throat as he forces himself to turn away from New L'Manberg, trudging down the path leading to the river. He belatedly realizes, as he clenches his empty fists, that his sword was lost in the teleportation - Dream's doing, he assumes. He's got absolutely nothing but his clothes and a muted communicator band. Everything else he has, is lost behind him in New L'Manberg.

Well. Almost everything.

They've barely made it ten feet down the path when a voice calls out his name.

"Tommy! There you are!"

He jerks to a halt, looking up with his brow furrowed in confusion. Dream halts, too, cocking his head curiously to the side as a translucent ghost flits out of the trees near the base of the obsidian wall. Tommy's brow arches with shock as Ghostbur drifts over, clutching a bundle of flowers in his hands.

"Ghostbur??" he whispers. "I thought - I thought you left with Phil??"

Ghostbur shakes his head. "Oh, no, I started to follow him, but then he saw me and told me to go back and keep an eye on you. I couldn't find you for a while, though, so I went and picked some flowers to give you when I found you again, and I did!" He holds out his hands, offering a wilted lily. When Tommy doesn't move to accept it, he reluctantly lowers his hands, keeping the flowers protectively cradled to his chest. "Are you and Dream going on an adventure together?"

Dream takes Ghostbur's unexpected appearance in stride. "We are," he says casually. "Would you like to join us, _Ghostbur?"_

Ghostbur's expression brightens, and Tommy feels sick. "Oh! I'd love to, where are we going?"

Dream chuckles, pushing Tommy down towards the riverbank where a boat is waiting as Ghostbur drifts along beside them.

"Wherever the river takes us," Dream says, as they climb into the boat together and leave L'Manberg behind.

* * *

For the first day of the journey down the river and into the sea, Tommy argues and snarls about his predicament, and Dream tunes him out, quietly amused. As the second day bleeds into the third, Tommy starts to fall quiet, barely speaking at all. Dream is sure it won't last; Tommy is much too stubborn to stay quiet for long. He supposes he can't be _too_ surprised; Tommy's had quite a series of shocks today. Strangely, Dream observes, the appearance of his ghostly brother didn't seem to phase him much.

It does, however, strike a note of vague concern within Dream. Admin code hisses in the back of his brain, trying and failing to assess Wilbur's broken code. Whatever glitch has brought him back in this form has rendered him invisible to Dream's admin powers. He simply hovers in the boat beside Tommy, oblivious to Tommy's restless anger and resentment, as insubstantial as a hallucination.

It's hardly worth being concerned about. Wilbur Soot is dead, and this 'Ghostbur' is little more than a flawed memory left behind. It's quite convenient that he decided to tag along on their little journey to bring Tommy far, far away; one less trip Dream needs to make to tie up loose ends.

One less wayward son, wandering around L'Manberg, stirring up trouble.

One journey into the wilderness, and two lost little birds, securely nestled in Dream's hands.

* * *

Tommy is sick to death of sailing by the time Dream finally brings the boat to shore again, about a three day's journey north from L'Manberg. The rolling of the waves and the cold whistle of wind above their heads aggravates the ache in his shoulders, and Ghostbur's mindless rambling has given him a headache that refuses to subside. He grumbles bitterly as Dream pushes him out of the boat and onto the sand, a sprawl of thin oak forests and meadows greeting him as they disembark. The wilderness is pristine; they're probably the first people in the server to have set foot here.

He already despises it.

"Ghostbur," Dream says pleasantly, tossing the specter a blunted wooden axe, "how about you go cut some lumber for a shelter? I need to have a talk with Tommy."

Ghostbur fumbles the axe, his arms struggling to hold it upright. "Okay!" he chirps, before floating off and leaving Tommy alone with Dream.

The moment Ghostbur is out of sight, something snaps inside of Tommy, and all his pent-up rage comes spilling out at once.

"You fucking _bastard!"_ he shouts, clocking Dream across the mask with a vicious right hook. His outburst has the desired effect of surprising Dream, at least - he manages to knock the admin off balance, sending him stumbling backward a few steps before he regains his footing. "Why?? Why do you always have to ruin _everything?!_ George's house would've been _fine,_ the rain put most of it out, we could've just _rebuilt_ it, you didn't - you didn't have to fucking _kidnap_ me-"

"I didn't kidnap you," Dream says calmly, cracking his neck as he adjusts his mask. "You were exiled. There's a difference."

"You _made_ Tubbo exile me! You put up those stupid fucking walls, you threatened _everyone-"_

"I was just trying to help Tubbo see things clearly. You're too volatile, Tommy. You and Wilbur could never just let things be at peace, you always had to find some way to stir up trouble for everyone else on the server."

Tommy grabs the sides of his head. His temples throb with pain, static rippling across his vision as his shoulders burn. "Shut up, _shut up._ You ruined everything, we didn't do _anything_ to you, _Wilbur_ didn't do anything to you and you _broke_ him-"

"Wilbur started a revolution against me," Dream says with a dismissive wave. "I was just trying to preserve the stability of my server. Everything that happened with the elections and Schlatt had nothing to do with me."

"You _broke_ him!" Tommy screams. "You tore his code apart, you made him forget, you _took away his wings!!"_

Dream freezes. Tommy wavers on his feet, hyperventilating, as Dream's head slowly turns towards him.

"So," he murmurs, "you remember."

Tommy scowls, hunching over with his arms wrapped around his chest as his heart pounds in his ears. "Yeah, I fucking _remember,_ you bitch. You took my brother's wings, you took _my_ wings, you ruined _everything!"_

“Oh, come on, Tommy,” Dream sighs exasperatedly. “I did that for your own good. You saw how quickly everyone turned on you back there. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if they knew all this time that you're an avian? Their jealousy would’ve turned them against you long before you and your brother could've started your petty little war.”

“Shut up, shut the fuck up, you took my _wings-”_

Dream rubs the bottom of his mask thoughtfully, seemingly deaf to Tommy’s snarled words.

“Well,” he asks plainly, “would you like them back?”

Tommy chokes on his tongue, stumbling backwards from Dream. His ears ring with static, and his head spins with disbelief. There’s no way he just heard Dream say that - there’s no way Dream would just give them back so easily, not after he took them away - right? There’s no fucking way he’s just gonna roll over and give Tommy what he so desperately wants, more than anything in the whole damn world-

Before he can stop himself, he gasps out, “Yes, you bastard, of course I want my fucking wings back!”

Dream cocks his head to the side, and-

It hits Tommy like a tidal wave, erupting into his sternum, through his ribs, out between his shoulders. The impact sends him to his knees with a ragged gasp, doubling over as pins and needles surge through his body. Distantly, he hears fabric ripping, feels a jolt of pain as his _skin_ splits open - the bones in his shoulders shift and spread, nerves lighting up with fiery pain as something bursts out of his back. Warm liquid drips down his sides, soaking into his shirt as bile stings the back of his throat.

He collapses into a quivering ball on the ground, grasping his head in his hands as Dream steps up to him, leaning down with hand outstretched-

Fingers run through the air beside his shoulder, and Tommy - Tommy _feels them._

Muscles twitch, and they flutter weakly at his sides, and he _feels them again._

A shuddering gasp leaves his lips as he rolls to his hands and knees, delirious as the pain ebbs and _sensation_ replaces it. The skin of his back crawls as he turns to look over his shoulder, not caring about Dream anymore, not caring about _anything_ but the sight of something large and feathered hanging off his shoulder. Long-disused muscles struggle to bring the wing up so he can look at it, and he reaches out desperately to run his fingers through the primaries.

He doesn't realize he's crying until he can barely see anymore.

His wings - _his wings_ aren't as big, he thinks, as Phil's, or his brothers'. They're slender, narrow, shaped a bit like hummingbird wings, and the muscles in his skin _thrum_ with a restless energy to match. The secondaries and coverts begin as a dark, chocolatey brown, shifting to a rusty red at the primaries. Flecks of flaxen-yellow speckle the undersides of the feathers, shimmering when the sunlight hits them.

They're weak, but they're _intact._ Instinctively, he stumbles to his feet, staring up at the sky as he starts to spread his wings wide-

"Ah, not so fast," Dream tuts disapprovingly, and there's a dull _snap,_ and Tommy is knocked to his knees as his balance is displaced and _the wings are taken again._

Panic overwhelms him as he lets out a high-pitched wail of a scream. Clawing at his shoulders as if he can somehow bring them out again, he turns to Dream with desperation and frantically chokes out, "No, no, give them back, _give them back!_ Please, Dream, give - give them back, I need them back, I need them-"

Dream crouches down slowly, mussing Tommy's hair as he collapses into the fetal position, hugging himself with his fingers curling into his shoulders. "Don't worry, little bird," Dream croons, and his tone might sound gentle if it weren't for the way it fills Tommy with _fear._ "I'll let you have them back soon. I have to go back to L'Manberg and take down that wall, but so long as you stay here, when I come back, I'll bring them out for you again." His head dips close to Tommy's ear, and he whispers, "If you behave, little bird, I may even let you fly with them... assuming you still can, of course."

A sharp whine leaves Tommy's throat, the ache in his back now raw and painful. "Dream, _please..."_

"Be a good little bird," Dream says, a warning lacing his tone. "Can you do that, Tommy? Can you behave?"

Tommy tastes bile. "I... I'll behave," he whispers.

"Good," Dream says, standing and turning away. "I'll be back to check on you in the next few days. Try not to die while I'm gone."

He doesn't hear Dream walking away. He vaguely hears the sound of a boat splintering, and a crackle of static as Dream disappears. He doesn't get up to check and make sure that Dream is really gone; he doesn't move at all, and only curls into himself, a broken scream tearing away from his lungs as he tries and tries to coax his wings back out, but his code refuses to listen to him, refuses to make him _whole_ again.

It's not long before the sound of his despair lures Ghostbur back.

"Tommy!" the ghost cries out in shock, floating down beside him and cupping Tommy's face in his hands. "What's wrong?? What happened?"

Tommy stares at him with blurry vision, hoarse, hiccoughing sobs breaking from his lips with every breath. Ghostbur's eyes widen with confused distress, and he grabs Tommy underneath the arm, straining to lift him up off the ground, but his arms are far too weak to stand a chance at moving Tommy even an inch.

Instead, Ghostbur pulls Tommy's head to his chest, wrapping his arms around him as tightly as he can. The pressure is weak and lukewarm, not nearly enough like the strength of Wilbur's arms when he was alive, but Tommy collapses into the embrace anyway, grabbing fistfuls of Wilbur's jumper as he sobs brokenly.

"Oh, Toms," Ghostbur whispers into Tommy's hair. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Ghostbur's fingers trail down the space between Tommy's shoulder blades, along his spine, rubbing in small circles. In another lifetime it would've been comforting, but now, Tommy curls up in Ghostbur's lap, shaking like a baby, and only sobs harder against his brother's chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE GOT WINGS BOIS
> 
> SORRY NOT SORRY
> 
> (hey Tommy?? Tommy boy?? What the fuck was that stream today??? Hello?? Someone get this boy out of prison PLEASE don't leave him in there with Dream)
> 
> Do leave a comment if you enjoyed! I love to see em :D they give the good good seratonins


	7. lay your weapons down (they're calling off the war)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil returns to L'Manberg to get Tommy, only to discover his son isn't there.
> 
> People quickly learn that while the withers may have left scars on the land, the fury of the Angel of Death cuts so much deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chapter title from "Mars" by Sleeping At Last)
> 
> Canon doesn't exist. I have formally disowned it. There is only Protective SBI and angst with actual happy endings.

All things considered, Techno takes the news about his twin and their stolen wings fairly well. By the time his screaming headache subsides, and the static fizzles to near nothingness, a few memories slip back into place. His voices chatter in the back of his head, smug in their victory over the parasite touch of admin code corrupting his memories. The pieces he can recall are still distorted, but in his mind's eye he can plainly see that grinning porcelain mask, the green-cloaked figure standing in the trees with arms crossed as Techno emerges through the hole he carved in the server barriers. 

He swears Dream must've been laughing when he manifested behind Techno's shoulder, hands clamping down on either side of Techno's skull. He doesn't remember what happened after that, but he can still hear the sound of his own scream, lost beneath the flurry of shrieking voices as Dream mangled his code and took away the greatest source of Techno's pride.

His stomach twists. He can't even remember what his own wings looked like - but he remembers Phil's. Broad and black, like a raven.

(It suits him. Like a raven collecting shiny things, Phil collects broken boys and helps make them whole.)

(Maybe, _maybe,_ he can do it again.)

Techno's initial shock quickly galvanizes into resolve. There's no point wallowing in self-pity for what's been taken, from both him and his family. He does what he always does, any time he's faced with a threat, any time he's been made vulnerable; he _fortifies_. It's a habit that hasn't changed since he was an orphaned child trying to look out for his physically weaker twin, fending off hunters eager to pluck their wings. Armor, weapons, a safe place to hide in the night - whatever it takes to keep the threat at bay when he can't finish it off for good.

Phil sticks around, quietly understanding of the zealous way Techno throws himself into his projects. With his help, the cabin is completed in a matter of days. It's... cozy, for lack of a better word, although any homeliness it possesses is more Phil's doing than Techno's. While Techno spends two days in the Nether mining ancient debris, Phil sets up farms and coaxes a few villagers to stay around the property, trading a hefty supply of emeralds and golden apples that he leaves neatly packed in Techno's chests. Towards the end of Phil's stay, they raid another fortress together, reaping enough materials to brew a truly astonishing quantity of potions; mostly fire resistance and strength, and a few precious health and regeneration potions.

(They also harvest a large number of wither skulls. Old habits die hard.)

The morning Phil leaves, Techno hands him a compass and directs his attention to the lodestone tucked into the corner of the cabin, next to the fireplace. Phil turns the compass over, raising a curious eyebrow when he spots the simple inscription on the back of _Techno's Cabin._ "Aw, mate," he says with a gentle smile, "you didn't have to do this, I know you still needed that netherite to fix up your armor."

Techno shakes his head. "Just take it, Phil," he says, voice hoarse in the early morning after two sleepless nights. "What if you can't get back through the Nether for some reason?"

Phil purses his lips thoughtfully as he presses the compass to the lodestone, activating a connection between them. "Fair enough." Tucking the compass into his satchel, he pins his cloak around his shoulders and turns to Techno with a soft, reassuring smile. Techno tries to bury the guilty feeling of sorrow that fills his stomach at the thought of his father leaving - it's not fair of him to even _think_ about asking Phil to stay, not when Tommy needs him. (Guilt is easier to handle than the dread of wondering what Tommy will say when he sees Techno again. Assuming he even agrees to return with their father.)

The voices chide him with a chorus of _technosad, **technolonely.**_ He grits his teeth and shuts them out as best he can - at least until his father leaves.

When Phil hugs him, fingers drifting against his shoulder blades, his nerves _burn_ with a restless ache.

"Stay safe, son," Phil murmurs, "I'll be back with your brothers soon."

A proper goodbye doesn't find its way to Techno's tongue. Something weighs heavily in his throat, unspoken, and he simply nods as Phil departs. He lingers on the doorstep, watching Phil walk away towards the Nether portal at the icy beach. The snow comes up to his knees, and he trudges through it slowly. Techno's fists clench at his sides at the injustice of it; his father shouldn't be reduced to forcing his way through snow and sleet on foot, not when he should be able to soar above it all, untouched.

The ache in his shoulders only worsens as Phil vanishes from view. In the silence left behind, the voices rouse to a cacophony, and Techno finds he no longer possesses the strength to keep them at bay. They swarm in his skull, united in their demands; his arm moves unbidden, picking up his ill-named Axe of Peace before he slams the door shut behind him and storms out into the snow. Two of his dogs, scuffling near the stables, take notice and trot after him as he heads into the woods, vision tinted crimson.

He has been denied the sky, so he will have blood instead.

(But he will remember to wash his hands clean, before his family comes home again.)

* * *

The journey back to New L'Manberg through the Nether is a swift one, if not uneventful. Phil takes care to avoid each fortress and bastion he stumbles across, losing nearly a stack of gold to keep the peace with piglin hunting parties along the way. He never sleeps longer than absolutely necessary, the throat-parching heat making it nigh impossible to sleep in anything resembling comfort. A close call with a ghast nearly sends him plummeting into a lava lake, but the risk to bridge across it rewards him with half a day cut off the journey, and in less than half a week, he finally locates one of L'Manberg's nether portals.

Emerging into pale morning sunlight, Phil takes in a deep breath, relieved to be free of the Nether's oppressive heat. It won't be long before he has to return - ideally, he'll cross back as soon as he finds Tommy and Ghostbur and gets their things packed up - so he savors the smell of fresh Overworld air as much as he can.

L'Manberg hasn't changed much, by the looks of it. Someone has brought more fish to the canals, and tidied the gardens, but nothing of particular interest catches Phil's eye until he reaches the center of the city. He almost doesn't notice them, at first, but one has been placed disquietingly close to his house, and his stomach twists with alarm when he realizes what they are.

Scattered around the podium on brazen display are wanted posters for his eldest son.

His heart pounds. He briefly considers tearing them down, but wrenches his attention away and hurries up the steps into his house.

"Tommy?" he calls out as he opens the door.

No response greets him. A cursory glance around the house reveals a stone cold fireplace and a thin layer of dust on every surface.

Phil's brow furrows. Setting his pack down just inside the door, he latches it shut and jogs back down to the podium. In the corner of his eye, he notices the flowers on his windowsill and flanking the stairs have been tended to recently, so _someone_ has been around - not Tommy, clearly, his youngest has no sense for gardening. Techno always loved gardening the most, and the habit rubbed off on his twin - Wilbur always preferred flowers over foodstuffs, though.

A few people are out and about in the city, as Phil treks through it. He gives them curt nods, receiving only lingering stares in return. They burn on the back of his neck as he passes by, a tension beginning to take root in his bones. The whole city feels tenser than he left it, he realizes. Like a held breath, waiting to exhale, fearful of the sound it might make. (A scream, perhaps, long and drawn-out. A sound that might shake the fragile foundations of this city reborn from the ashes.)

Phil's pace quickens as he heads towards Niki's bakery. A relieved sigh fills his chest when he sees her out in front of it, mending the awning over the door.

"Hello, Niki," he greets her with a smile.

The indistinct tension in Phil's body worsens, ever so slightly, when Niki jumps at the sound of his voice, spinning on her heel with wide eyes.

"Oh, Phil!" she exclaims in surprise. "When did - when did you get back?"

"Just now. How have things been going while I was away?"

Strangely, Phil's best attempt at small talk doesn't seem to soothe Niki's clearly rattled nerves. Her gloved hands clench, worrying at the clasp of her overalls as she shifts her weight to her heels. Phil keep his expression neutral, despite the flare of concern in his chest. He recognizes the anxiety in her posture, the guarded worry in her eyes. It's a reaction he hasn't garnered from people in a long time, but it is familiar nevertheless.

She's scared of him.

A shapeless sense of dread coils in Phil's stomach.

"It's been..." she begins, then stops, biting her lip. "Stressful."

Phil nods sympathetically. "I'm not surprised," he murmurs, casually crossing his arms over his chest. Niki's shoulders don't relax. If anything, she only grows more stiff.

The dread begins to find its shape.

"Niki," Phil asks, a crackle of static racing through his skull, "do you happen to know where Tommy is at the moment? I was hoping he'd be around my house, but he wasn't there."

Niki is a brave girl. Strong and steadfast. Phil may not know much about the people of this city, but he knows this.

And Niki, brave girl she is-

She cracks. She shrinks away from Phil, and her eyes brim with tears, her hands rising to cover her mouth as her shoulders shake.

"Phil, I'm-" Her voice comes out a clipped cry. "I'm so sorry. There wasn't anything we could do."

Phil's eyes widen. "...what??"

Tears spill down Niki's cheeks. "Tubbo... Tubbo had to exile him."

Blood roars in Phil's ears. The dread takes shape, distorted, like a fledgling bird shot from the sky. Torn down, wings clipped, dragged away from home. Niki rambles something, a frantic flurry of words that never reach Phil's ears. He vaguely register her reaching out to him before he spins and breaks into a sprint, pulse thumping in his chest, his throat, his temples, a screaming fury condensing in his veins.

His son is gone.

His youngest, his Tommy, is _gone -_ exiled by his best friend's command.

Niki is shouting somewhere behind him as he runs. The city dissolves to a blur around him - he barely notices the people he rushes past, barely hears the exclamations of shock and alarm. His cloak billows out behind him as he storms up the steps of the pathway heading to the meeting house. Up the path, there's a bridge, and just beyond it, a courtyard hedged with rosebushes, and a quartet of figures clustered around a bench.

The bridge rattles as Phil storms across it, bellowing, _"Tubbo!!"_

The boy's head snaps up. As soon as recognition clicks, his expression morphs to one of fear.

Before Tubbo can get a word out, the man sitting beside him on the bench jumps to his feet, standing between Phil and Tubbo with one hand pushing Tubbo behind him, the other outstretched towards Phil. His eyes narrow as Phil draws to a halt in the middle of the intersection of pathways before the courtyard, and he loudly snarls, "Philza, put the sword down."

Phil's grip tightens. He doesn't even remember drawing the sword from his hip, but he doesn't sheathe it again.

"Tubbo," Phil growls, "explain what happened to Tommy, _right now."_

"I'm - oh, Aether, Phil, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Tubbo gasps, voice cracking as he cowers behind Quackity. Fundy stands uncomfortably behind them, ears pinned flat to his head. There's another young man beside him, one Phil doesn't recognize; a tall and lanky fellow, taller even than Wilbur was, his multicolored eyes staring at Phil with confusion and distress.

Phil fixes on them all with a furious glare, barely hearing the patter of footsteps from behind and around him. "Tommy is your best friend," he snaps, his voice echoing across the stone and wood, "what the _fuck_ did you people do to him?!"

"I didn't - I didn't want to, I-"

Tubbo is shaking, panic filling his voice. Phil can only see Tommy in his place, can only hear Tommy screaming as he's torn away from his friends, his home-

"Philza, listen to me," Quackity interrupts, "We didn't have a choice-"

"Of course you had a fucking choice!!" Phil roars, and the gathering crowd around him flinches. "You could have chosen not to betray my son, _again!_ Tommy is the _only_ reason this city deserves a second chance and you - you _exiled_ him?! For what??"

The fury inside him burns like wildfire. Tubbo breaks down into incoherent sobs, cringing away from Phil in terror, and Phil _doesn't care._

"Tell me where my son is," he snarls, "or this city will learn exactly why I am known as the Angel of Death."

Quackity pales. Figures move in Phil's peripheral vision, flanking from either side, but he doesn't care, because no one is giving him an answer, and Tommy is still _gone-_

"Do you think _two_ withers was bad?!" he shouts, and _that_ gets their attention. "I would have finished what Wilbur and Techno started, if it weren't for the fact that _Tommy_ wanted this place to live. I could turn this entire fucking city into a crater, and do you know why I didn't? It's because Tommy loves this place, when it has done _nothing_ to deserve it. This city has only brought my sons _pain_ and the only reason it still stands is because _Tommy wanted it -_ and you _threw him out."_

His words scrape like ice from his throat, echoing through the still air as the city holds its breath around him. There's a desperate edge to his fury, a saltwater sting in his eyes as his hand trembles around the handle of his sword.

His son is gone, his son is _gone,_ and these people _will not answer him-_

"Phil," a voice says carefully, and his gaze snaps to his left as an armored man with green-scaled skin and a strange mask steps towards him, "don't do this. I get that you're angry, you have every right to be, but you can't take it out on Tubbo."

Phil's lips curl back into a sneer. "So you'll defend your _president,_ but not Tommy?" he snaps, acid in his tone.

A second figure darts from the right, skidding to a halt in front of Quackity, yet another barrier between Phil and the person who _cast his son out._ The dark-haired young man shoots him a glare, sword raised defensively as he calls out, "You don't get to disappear for two and a half fucking weeks and then barge back in here and threaten our city. That's not how this works, Phil. You need to back down, right now, before someone gets hurt."

"Phil, _please,"_ the armored man says, "we can talk about this-"

Phil's ears ring. None of them are _answering._ None of them are _explaining._

"You pushed one of my sons to his death," he snarls, something breaking in his voice, "you've branded one of them a _war criminal,_ and you've _exiled. Tommy._ You don't deserve this city, you don't deserve this _farce_ of a government."

He takes a step forward, diamond edge of his sword glinting in the sunlight. Someone screams in the crowd - a man's voice, he thinks.

His next step is thrown off balance as _something_ rises up from the ground beneath him, slightly behind him, becoming tangible just in time to grab Phil by the arm and yank him backward before he even has a chance to land a blow on the man defending Quackity and Tubbo. The instinct to flare his wings out does Phil no favors; his arm is twisted in the grip of a man who's somehow phased through the _fucking ground_ to reach him undetected.

Phil's sword swings wildly, catching the man on the arm, but his grip doesn't lessen. He keeps Phil in place just long enough for the armored man to tackle him, forcing him to the ground as his sword is ripped away. He bucks under the weight of the man in armor, a ragged shout leaving his lips, but the glitter of dark sunglasses catches his attention as they're knocked from the third man's face in the fray.

White eyes stare down at Phil with desperation as he struggles.

"Phil," Eret whispers, his voice so heavy with remorse, "please don't do this, Tubbo's been hurt so much already - he doesn't deserve this."

Cold shock courses through Phil's veins as the man who betrayed and traumatized these boys once before quietly begs him not to do it again. Like a puppet with cut strings, he goes limp on the ground, panting for breath as his adrenaline wears out, leaving behind a hollow despair that eats him from the inside out. The gathered crowd has fallen silent, staring at him with a mix of horror and guilt, though he can hardly make them out through the strange watery blur that's settled over his vision.

His eyes drift up to see Tubbo shaking, collapsed into Quackity's grasp, Fundy's hand on his shoulder.

Aether above and Void below, he's _terrified._

The despair inside Phil morphs to raw, broken anguish, consuming him as a sob wrenches past his lips.

His son is gone, his Tommy is gone, and he couldn't do anything to stop it-

"Sam, Sapnap," Quackity's voice rings out coldly, "Effective immediately, Philza is to be put under house arrest for the foreseeable future. Escort him there and remove his weapons, and make sure to search him for wither skulls."

Phil knows they won't find any, his threat held no weight at all, but in the moment he could picture it so clearly - L'Manberg razed to ashes once again, with nothing left to rebuild. It's been a long, _long_ time since he lost control like that, and he doesn't even have an excuse like Techno that any _voices_ could've pushed him to that point. All he can blame is the raw grief inside him, the rage that he thought he'd long since put to rest.

This world only seems capable of bringing out the worst in people.

He doesn't fight back as Eret and Sam haul him to his feet and pull him back down the pathway. The crowd melts away as they pass by, watching uncomfortably as Phil is taken back down to the speaking podium. Sapnap trails after them, sword still clutched in hand, focusing on Phil with a distrusting glare. Phil says nothing as they bring him into his house and Sam pulls something out of the ender chest, latching it around Phil's ankle as Sapnap starts rummaging through Phil's things.

"I'm sorry about Tommy," Sam says under his breath as Phil sits shocked-stiff on the chair in the middle of the room. "But it's not right to blame Tubbo for what happened."

Slowly, Phil lifts his head, bangs falling disheveled across his tear-stained face. "...Tell me what happened," he croaks, _"please."_

Sam and Eret exchange a glance. Sam heaves a sigh. "Two days after you left," he explains, clearly being careful in his choice of words, "Tommy and a newcomer to the server, you might've seen him back there - enderman hybrid, his name's Ranboo - were accused of burning down George's house. Dream... Dream put up obsidian walls around the city. He told Tubbo they wouldn't come down until whoever was responsible for burning George's house was removed from the city."

Fresh tears burn at the corners of Phil's eyes, and his head drops to his hands.

Of course - of fucking _course_ it was Dream.

It's _always_ Dream.

"Tommy confessed," Sam continues quietly. "And Tubbo... Tubbo agreed to exile him, and then Dream took him away. We don't... none of us know where Tommy is now. Most of us didn't know about it until Tommy was already gone."

"I tried asking Dream where he was," Eret says. He doesn't elaborate further, and Phil doesn't need him to. He may not have been on this server long, but he's learned as well as anyone else how their admin operates. Better than anyone else, in some regards. If Dream doesn't want Tommy to be found-

His chest tightens with a raspy sob. Eret and Sam shift uncomfortably, then make their way to the door where Sapnap is already waiting, clutching something small and metallic in his hand. As they exit, Phil lifts his head again, choking out, "Wait."

Mercifully, they pause. As Sam looks at him expectantly, Phil whispers. "Just... tell Tubbo I'm sorry."

Sam gives a shallow nod. "I will."

When the door closes, the dam breaks, and Phil can't keep himself from weeping. When the tears finally subside what must be _hours_ later, leaving his face puffy and eyes red, he's left numb to the touch of the world. Even when he finally drags himself up from the chair and checks his belongings - only to discover that Techno's compass is missing - he can't bring himself to feel anything more than raw, aching despair.

He shouldn't have left. Or at the very least, he shouldn't have left Tommy behind.

When he closes his eyes, he can't stop seeing Tubbo's face, the wide-eyed terror, as if Tubbo wholeheartedly believed his best friend's father would murder him in front of the entire city. Phil feels sick to his stomach as the realization sinks in that he might have followed through on that threat, if the others hadn't intervened. House arrest is hardly convenient, but he can't help but feel relieved that they stopped him, because - they're right.

This isn't Tubbo's fault.

As ever, the blame rests soundly on the shoulders of the madman who would hold an entire _city_ hostage, just so he could get his hands on a single boy.

(And on Phil, for not protecting his son better.)

His gaze drifts listlessly around the room, landing on a pile of blankets before the cold fireplace. They're a bunched-together mess, and a fresh ache wells up inside him, distant memories surfacing of a young boy hoarding blankets in his room, testing the limits of Phil's patience, braced to see if Phil would throw him out for thieving every blanket in the house. Tommy loved making nests in inconvenient places as a child; his nests were never as elaborate and large as Phil's, or sturdy like Techno's, or artful like Wilbur's. They were small and haphazard, thrown together and easily dismantled.

Phil drops to his knees beside the blankets on his floor, gathering them slowly to his chest as tears roll down his face. Wherever Tommy is now, he probably doesn't have anything to keep him warm, doesn't have anything soft to make a nest - no cushions, no blankets, no feathers-

It isn't right, it isn't _fair._

The damp, cottony weight of grief clogs Phil's head, so suffocating he doesn't hear the sound of a timid knock on the door, or hushed whispers on his front step. It isn't until he hears the door creak open behind him that he turns, fully expecting to see one of his reluctant captors returned, but instead the face nervously peeking through the half-open door is the mottled black and white face of an unfamiliar enderman hybrid.

"Uh," the young man whispers, his deep voice thick with uncertainty, "I - I don't know how long I have before they notice I'm gone - can we talk? It's about Tommy."

Phil blinks slowly, scrubbing away the residue of tears crusted underneath his eyes. Clearing his throat, he stands on wobbly legs and gestures limply for the hybrid to enter. "You're the one Sam mentioned, aren't you?" he asks hoarsely. "The other one Dream suspected of burning George's house. Ranboo, right?"

Ranboo nods, wringing his hands together. He looks scared, and Phil knows why, and it kills him that his first impression upon this young man was one of fury and _terror._ "Yeah, um... well, I mean, I kind of did? Me and Tommy both, my first day here." Phil's eyes widen, but before he can get a word out Ranboo rambles in a whisper, "Tommy found me out in the woods, we talked and - and I know Dream did something to his code, and yours too I'm guessing, you're his dad after all - but Tommy was pretty sure he did the same to me, because I can't remember anything from before I came here - anyway, Tommy wanted to burn George's house to get back at Dream and I should've tried to talk him out of it, but I didn't, and I'm sorry, Dream was gonna pin the blame on me but Tommy confessed instead-"

After his rampage earlier, it's a welcome change of pace when Phil feels the familiar flare of a protective paternal instinct - something he never thought he'd have, before Techno and Wilbur stumbled into his life years ago. He takes a careful step towards Ranboo, holding his hands up neutrally; when Ranboo doesn't shrink away, Phil rests his hands up on the young man's shoulders. Ranboo hunches into the touch as Phil murmurs, "You don't need to apologize. What happened to Tommy isn't your fault, got it?"

Ranboo frowns. "But I-"

"It's not your fault," Phil repeats, tone still hoarse, but steadier now. "Out of the two of us, if anyone deserves blame, it's me. I'm his father, I should've been here for him. You just got caught up in our problems, it's not your job to fix them, and I know Tommy wouldn't want you blaming yourself for what happened."

"I... guess," Ranboo says uncertainly, brow knit with confusion. 

Phil gives him a tired smile. "...Would you like to sit down, Ranboo?"

After a moment of hesitation, Ranboo accepts Phil's offer, shuffling over to the bed and settling down on top it. Phil notices the way his fingers curl into the pillow; his suspicions are confirmed when Ranboo quietly mentions, "You know, he let me sleep here, my first night on the server. It rained a lot when we were coming back. I got kind of soaked. But he gave me extra blankets."

A raw chuckle scrapes from Phil's throat. His youngest has grown up a lot, out of his sight.

He has to do something to get Tommy back, but-

_Dream's taken him. No one knows where he is._

The grief takes hold again, tying his stomach into knots. The house feels so cold, so empty around him, without Tommy there.

He glances up at Ranboo, eyes shimmering and damp.

"...Do you mind staying a bit?" he whispers. "I know I'm - I'll probably be stuck here a while, I don't think anyone is going to be too keen on visiting me after what I did today-"

Ranboo holds his hands in his lap, playing with the hem of his blazer.

"Yeah," he says quietly, "I can stay."

They don't talk much. When they do, it's mostly Ranboo talking - mostly about the things he likes in L'Manberg, about Tubbo's bees, and Niki's bakery, and the ugly cobblestone towers Tommy has left standing around. His voice turns to white noise after a bit, as Phil descends into his own thoughts, thinking of the stolen compass and the binding clasp on his ankle and his son, his Tommy, his reckless, headstrong boy stolen away from the city that should've protected him, but couldn't.

Where is his son? Where is Tommy? What is going to happen to Phil, to Techno, if they lose Tommy, too, like they lost Wilbur?

The despair sinks back into his bones, when Ranboo leaves, and a single question screams in Phil's head above all the rest.

Why is it, when he comes to this city, when he tries to save his boys-

Why, why, _why,_ is he always just a little too late?

He screams at the walls, head buried in his hands, begging for an answer, but the silent walls and the city around him have no answers to give.

* * *

As night falls, Quackity hunches over the meeting house table, staring at the compass in his hand that read's _Techno's Cabin._

Sapnap hovers at his side, radiating a familiar warmth. "Q," he murmurs, "If you really wanna go through with this, I'll... I'll do what I can to help, but... do you really have to?"

Quackity gives him a side glance, lips pulled into a scowl. "He's a war criminal, Sapnap," he says bluntly, but neither of them really believe that that's where it ends.

If _Phil_ was prepared to kill Tubbo out of some misguided sense of vengeance, then there's no telling what _Technoblade_ will do, and besides-

Quackity still tastes the ash in his mouth, sees the skies burning each time he tries to sleep, feels himself plummeting as the ground caves in beneath him, Sapnap and Karl screaming his name as he clawed at the sky, desperate for _something_ to slow his fall. His arm still won't lift all the way, his leg still has a limp - his bones cracked when he hit the ground, pain burning through his body as flames consumed the city. He can still hear Technoblade _laughing_ as Karl scrambled down the ragged edge of the crater to reach him, pulling him clear of the wither explosions.

(He couldn't hear the way the laughter sounded a little too much like a broken sob, soaked in denial and rage.)

"We have to deal with him, our way," Quackity snarls. "You heard what Philza said. Technoblade won't think twice about burning this city to the ground if he catches wind of what's happened to Tommy. So we have to get rid of him before he has a chance to destroy what we're trying to build."

Sapnap sighs, tight-lipped, but he doesn't argue. That night they gather armor and weapons and supplies; come the morning, they track down Fundy and Ranboo. Fundy seems all too eager to join the mission, as if he's desperate to get out of this city, away from the specter of his father and the resentful eyes of his grandfather. Ranboo concedes silently when Quackity orders him to join their hunting party - their 'butcher army', Fundy tactfully dubs them, the words bitter when they leave his tongue.

Tubbo doesn't ask what they're doing when they leave. He barely says anything at all - not even a goodbye.

(His eyes look so hollow. Quackity can't shake the feeling that maybe the kid thinks he deserves Philza's fury.)

"No more running, Technoblade," Quackity mutters under his breath as they set out, his butcher army at his side and L'Manberg at his back, a determined call for _justice_ simmering in his chest, and a dull ache between his shoulder blades that is forgotten as they head north, and the cold sets in.

* * *

A ghost drifts along the riverbank, watching the butchers depart. He wrings his hands, something flickering inside his chest like a burnt-out ember.

(Fear, maybe, or resolve.)

Things tug on him, from different directions. There is a father in a city, imprisoned and remorseful. Elsewhere there is a boy he cannot save, whose pain he doesn't understand, who is too far away for him to remember how to find him anymore.

Ahead of him, there is a brother who has no idea what is marching to his door.

The ghost drifts, indecisive, for a moment longer - and then a flicker rimmed in pale blue light trails after the butcher army, the gentle snowfall melting with a hiss against his ash-gray skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dadza can go a little feral, as a treat
> 
> (Sure can't wait to see what Tommy got up to in exile next chapter,,,,)
> 
> -
> 
> Leave a comment if you enjoyed! I feast upon the screams of the readers as Techno's chat feasts upon violence
> 
> -
> 
> I have a [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/teejay_kaye)! I sometimes post art and other writing things I'm working on over there :D


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